


The Boy in the Well

by laurlovescookies



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-19 04:16:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13696674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurlovescookies/pseuds/laurlovescookies
Summary: Whilst fleeing a stalker in a dark wintry wood, the appearance of a strange ruin seems like a godsend to Lance McClain. Enter Keith Kogane, a solitary young man with a tragic history that ends and begins at the bottom of a well. Keith is as eager to protect his new guest as he is to keep him forever. A ghost story. Klance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing horror. Any constructive criticism is very welcome!

By now the surviving headlight had been extinguished altogether. The pungent rush of smoke and burning metal still lingered in his senses-poor Blue, poor Blue, poor, poor, poor, Blue—as he waded into the yawning forest. All the waving bare boughs seemed to be hundreds and hundreds of reaching hands.

For a foolish split second in time Lance was again a little child whom jumped into too-deep water at Isle Bianca. As his lungs burned and wrung themselves he fumbled frantically for the light of the surface in a flurry of bubbles. If ever there were an incentive to kick, it was the fact the bottom couldn't be seen-there was only darkness all the way down, down, down. 

Now it was descend or die.

He staggered through the brush and waded through knee-high snow, staining much of it red from the fire-and-teeth gash on his thigh. But the man's amused calls still rang sweetly in his ears, along with the fresh sounds of snapping dry leaves and branches as the black silhouette followed. Almost at a leisurely pace. 

Tilting back his head he sang, mocking and singsong, although taut around the edges with obvious fury:

"OLLY-OLLY-OXEN-FREE!"

By now the snow glittered underneath the stars like a threat. It was scarcely light enough besides to see his own hand inches away from his face, and he kept smacking into trees and getting tangled in branches, liberally scratching him. Again he felt for his phone in his pockets, and again scrabbled at empty space. He'd dropped it. His one lifeline and he'd dropped it.

His ragged breathing appeared in the frosty air in puffs that swam over his face as he hurried downhill, slipping more than once and soaking himself in the process. He forced himself up and running again, heart beating so painfully in his throat and blood pounding so prominently in his ears he wondered that the noise hadn't given him away yet. The moon and stars watched through the trees as he swallowed the cries for help that he knew would only kill him in the end.

There was no one here in these parts. No one. 

"DON'T MAKE ME DRAG YOU OUT, YOU DIRTY LITTLE FAGGOT, DON'T MAKE ME COME FIND YOU!"

However deep he went, Dave's voice was not getting any further away, and he was clearly following the evidence Lance could not erase in the snow drifts. He stopped cold and looked round, clutching at a searing stitch in his side. Chest heaving, the young man went deeper, mind blank with futility and hot with terror. He choked on dry sobs, his clawing hands angry-red, aching and burning fiercely.

"I'LL KILL YOU! GONNA RIP THIS KNIFE THROUGH YOUR ASS AND FUCKING CUT YOU!"

Better to give up now—it was the only left to do, besides hanging himself with his coat—he had his pick of trees, none of which he could scrabble into, however—but his treacherous feet kept moving automatically as he rushed through several bare branches. No good, no good, no good, was the mantra his slipping feet kept stamping through the snow. 

Lance tripped over a tree root, and his vision briefly turned white as he fell for the third time, this time feeling an awful pop in his ankle. There was a brief, horrible moment before the pain fully registered that he understood that he'd been hurt bad before he hit the ground.

A crucifying jolt surged in his throbbing-madly ankle. Voice catching in the lump in his throat, he lay crumpled and winded, wet hair falling messily over his face. Any moment now there would be Dave and his knife and he would tear out his throat and it might be a relief, compared to what else the man might like to do. Especially because he'd shown a proclivity towards assault before. He pressed his bitterly-cold hands against his mouth to restrain the primal shriek of despair that rattled inside his ribcage like a pinball.

After some time—he couldn't tell for how long—he rose again, dripping, glowing with cold and hurt, and hobbled forward. There was a retaliatory stab of pain in his ankle with each step, as if he were the mermaid in the original Hans Christen Anderson story. The fucked-up version. 

Gritting his teeth, a fine sheet of sweat on his brow despite the extreme chill, he managed ten steps before he was forced to clutch a tree for support, every inch of him crying for release as he shakily limped away again, spotting a fallen branch. He quickly broke it into an adequate staff, limping with the birch over his shoulder as he came into a small clearing.

Dave's shouts and intermittent curses had faded somewhat, but he couldn't have got away so easily. Lance came to a stop before a yew tree, sagging against his support, face deathly-white. Gasping, he looked up to find a small well. The weathered, cracked stone and splintery wood looked positively ancient, but maybe it meant there were buildings somewhere not far away.

And inhabitants.

Lance plunged deeper into the heart of the forest, positively-malefic gales pushing him back. By now the branches had grown so thick and so clustered overhead he couldn't see the moon or stars anymore; he was running near-blind.

Lance's path narrowed into a thicket-tunnel, and he forced himself to crawl through it, previously blistering hands rapidly losing feeling in them. Dave was still yelling what sounded like lewd promises in the distance, but maybe this pass would be too small for his pursuer to lumber through.

For what felt like a very long time the inky tunnel seemed to plummet into the earth itself. But eventually it began to expand, and soon Lance was able to shakily rise, wincing as he rushed to an enormous hill. Lance narrowly avoided rolling down again twice-what he wouldn't have given to be there with Pidge and Hunk under different circumstances-as he hauled himself up to the top. 

It was then he came upon a house. His breath hitched into a gasp.

The building's silhouette was a greater darkness than the gloom surrounding it. It was an enormous, Neo-Victorian beauty, pillared and with brick-red shingles lacquered so distinctly even in the night Lance could see they looked like scales. The roof and dilapidated window panels were a dark slate, and upon the roof and ground floor there was iron fencing. Somehow they managed to look both delicate and threatening, the intricate spirals in the metal belying their sharp arrowheads.

But with panels scattered on the snow about it like missing teeth, the faded paint, the splintered wood and the fact that the distinctly-unwelcoming looking place seemed sunken into the snow, the ruin had a foreboding feel of neglect. Had Lance not been so frightened, he might've sensed how the whole perimeter had the stale taste of neglect to the air.

But he was, and he didn't, so Lance slid down the hill and ran faster than he ever had in his life, his injuries nearly unrecognizable in the face of overwhelming adrenaline. He had to shove himself against the rusted-fast gate before it last reluctantly slipped open a crack with a shuddering, dry creek. 

And with that he dragged himself up the pass to the door, pounding furiously. "Hello? Hello, is there anyone here?!”

And there was nothing in response. He seized the rusting doorknob and wrestled with it—but it was locked. His voice shot up a few octaves as he yelled, “Help! Help me! It's an emergency!"

Somewhere Dave bellowed his name. Tears dashing down his face, Lance frantically hammered the door with both fists, accidentally slipping into Spanish before he knew it.

"Please, please, please open up, he's going to kill me," he cried, hot tears splashing on the door. "He's come to kill me and I've got nowhere else to go, no phone, so please—"

The dark windows suddenly lit up like jack-o-lantern eyes, painting the outside billows yellow. A second later Lance squawked as the door he'd been leaning against disappeared and he crash-landed face first on a carpet. Hands immediately seized his shoulders and he instinctively recoiled, looking up with terrified eyes.

The stranger jerked back as if burned, his own dark eyes dilated and fervid. He was a tall, pale, and wiry young man—he scarcely seemed older than Lance—and he reluctantly backed away, shoulders squaring as his hand flew to his pocket. Lance slowly held up his scratched and filthy hands, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted rust.

“Please. There’s a maniac o-out there. He’s s-says he’s going to kill me. Crap, I know he’s come to kill me—h-he followed my car and I just wanted to get away but it was icy and he rear-ended me and I skid off the road into a ditch and he got out and—“

Oh right. Breathing was good. Lance gasped before abruptly plunking on the floor again, limbs eagle-spread.

The boy didn’t speak or move. Then, as tentatively as if approaching a wounded animal, he slowly knelt, expression still stony. Lance sprung up to a sitting position, squirming underneath the stranger’s unblinking gaze. His own eyes uneasily flicked to the closed door. 

It briefly registered to Lance that hadn't heard the door open or shut, but the stranger must've opened and closed it in a hurry. They warily considered each other, and Lance wondered if the boy had wordlessly initiated a staring match.

Eyes watering notwithstanding, Lance valiantly held his own. But to his chagrin the former did it much better. Frankly it was starting to get annoying; that stricken look was borderline offensive. 

Then again, learning the stuff of a B-rated horror film was lurking in your woods because of the (albeit handsome) weirdo shivering on your front porch couldn’t have made an excellent first impression. Lance briefly pictured being hurled back out into the snow, and the idea made his insides freeze over in a way the bitter cold hadn’t. 

“Please,” he pleaded, voice painfully soft. “Help me. I promise I’m not here to h-hurt you.” 

The only indication the boy heard him at all was the fact that he quipped an eyebrow. Then a second later, the news seemed to broke over him, and he looked positively wild-eyed. And hunted. Was Lance just projecting?

“Um,” Lance broke the silence awkwardly. “So, speaking of bloodthirsty stalker maniacs—“

The boy started as if shocked, shaking his head like a dog trying to dislodge water. He reached out for Lance again, hesitated, and then grabbed his forearm anyway. His hold was positively vice-like and Lance growled, “Leggo! You’re hurting me!”

"Why does he want to kill you?" The stranger rasped, voice as dry and rumbling as a disused motor engine.

“Why? Because he can!” Lance snapped, jerking in the boy’s clasp with all the success of an animal in a trap. “Because—because—“ Something that fucking sucked sometimes about being queer was the fact that you came out not once, but over a hundred times. “—he thinks just because—I l-like guys as much as I do girls—“ The stranger’s hand immediately slackened and Lance at last succeeded in prying his arm free. “—that means I’ll…I’ll sleep with anyone. O-or that I o-owe him somehow b-because he’s…older, because he has p-power over a lot of people, and keeps sending these a-awful letters, and sick g-gifts I don’t even want—“ He buried his face in his hands.

Silence once again. Lance peeked through parted fingers. The strange boy was looking at him with pained sympathy.

“Okay.” The stranger looked so young but sounded so much like an old man at that moment. “It’s okay. I get it. You can stay here.”

Lance slumped over and the stranger looked him over carefully again. At least he seemed convinced. And judging by how his brow furrowed, worried. “Oh, you're hurt—" Lance wondered if he looked as bad as he felt. "—you really are hurt, what did you do? You look like you got into a fight with a bear on the way here—"

"Well, yeah, technically speaking that’s gay slang for what he is, although again, he’s the homicidal maniac variety. Please," Lance whispered again, ashamed and angry as the tears continuing to fall despite his shock. He couldn't stop babbling, everything that he'd kept silent for months slipping out from rapidly-crumbling defenses. The stranger said he could stay, but he had to hear it again. "All I wanted—all I wanted was for him to leave me alone, he knows where I l-live, he kept calling me every time I changed my number, Hunk and Pidge tried scaring him off and it didn’t work, fucking—mami tried calling the police but because he’s—he found me—"

"Easy." The young man held out a hand Lance didn’t take. “Wait…can you stand? Do you need help?”

“…um, probably! Just a few scrapes. But I think I just feel like scooting around now, to be completely honest. All the rage now; don’t you worry about a thing.”

The stranger’s hand remained extended. “Come on.”

Lance frowned, and then reluctantly allowed the young man to tug him up. He was becoming acutely aware again of just how badly his ankle hurt. He could only perch like a stork on one good leg, and he hissed through his teeth. The stranger nearly dropped him in his haste. "Oh. You are hurt—“

“Uh, it’s really nothing, just a—hey!“

A second later the boy grabbed his free leg and was gently prizing off Lance’s shoe. Lance flailed at the air from his ballerina-esque pose, very nearly sending the two crashing to the floor. The young man inspected the swelling bulge and scowled before tentatively looping one of Lance's arms around his shoulder. Lance cautiously tolerated the contact, and the stranger's eyes closed for a brief moment.

"The door’s double-bolted." He pointed toward the door with his foot. "And I have a knife." Lance flinched, partially out of the insinuation and from guilt over the drowsy wave of relief that passed over him at the words. He normally objected to violence. "No one is coming to hurt you, I promise. I won’t allow it.” The stranger’s tone darkened considerably and he leaned in much too close to comfort. “I’ll kill anyone who tries breaking in here.”

“Um…ooookay.” Lance managed a strangled smile. that’s…that’s good. Yay?”

“Anyway, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Lance bristled. Dignity. He would have some scraps of dignity after all but wringing his hands and breaking down in front of this solemn boy. “I don’t need cleaning up.”

“Note: If you’re bleeding all over my carpet, you probably could use some cleaning up,” The young man said dryly. Lance looked down at his thigh and blushed.

“Relax…I’ve got you. You need to rest.

"Um." At least the stranger sounded as sheepish as Lance felt. “My name’s Keith. I…” He paused, seemed to think better of it, and he and Lance dazedly allowed himself to be led to another room as spots swam over his vision.

“My name’s Lance…at least that’s what I’ve been told…God, I hope my parents haven’t been lying to me.”

Something like a snort beside him. "Good for you. You can explain more once we get you down—easy, easy now, you’ve lost a lot of blood—I’ve got you—"

And while Lance scarcely drank in anything but a blur at the moment, he felt himself gently lowered—softness. He was sinking in an impossibly-squashy sofa that sank so much it seemed intent on eating him.

“Lance?” Someone was gently shaking him. “Lance, it’s alright. I already said I wouldn’t let anything touch you.”

“I know you did.”

“Then why did you turn white as a sheet all of a sudden?” 

Lance closed his eyes, opened them again because a terror was embroidering itself inside his eyelids. Nope, he wasn’t going to imagine anyone or anything eating anything or anyone tonight.

Violets are blue, your cheeks are red—

Your eyes are so pretty. I want to eat them.

Keith reluctantly released him, muttering beneath his breath as he hurried away. "Water, hot water, bandages, and ice—"

Lance's head sagged back against a pillow, and he took in the background with a mite of curiosity. There was a small brass chandelier with glass bulb-frames that looked as if it'd been recovered from an antique shop. There were two small chintz armchairs sitting near a beautiful mantle, beneath which was a fireplace. It was surrounded by two enormous shelves filled with leather-bound books with beautiful, peeling gold lettering on their spines.

There were delicate tables scattered around the room, and velvet curtains with heavily-hung tassels before the windows; he was grateful the drapes were drawn. The wallpaper was an intricate, vintage floral pattern. He thought of Keith’s spiky mullet, his mid-torso red jacket and let out a brief chuckle; this prissy home couldn’t seem like a more improper fit for someone whom looked like he haunted Hot Topic instead of sensibly heading over next door to Spencer’s. This place looked more like abuela’s house with the innumerable family photos and watercolor sailboat paintings sucked dry.

In a corner there was a cabinet filled with delicate-looking teacups, and on the coffee table before him was an empty decanter and two glasses. There was even a grandfather clock ticking dutifully in the corner with a swinging pendulum. Place probably belonged to some old white lady whom smelled like a Protestant church. 

His eyes fluttered dreamily as he heard Keith's approaching footsteps. Keith suddenly seemed very interested in admiring the drapes, bearing a small tray with two bowls and what looked like the contents of a first-aid kit. "I like your home," Lance lied as Keith set the tray on the table and knelt beside him. "Very…uh, old-fashioned chic. Yeah. Good stuff, early 1900s chic."

"That's what my mother was going for," Keith said lightly, sounding amused as if enjoying a private joke. He dipped a small rag into a bowl of icy water and wrung it. "She always liked to keep it just so. It belonged to my grandparents before they died. Sorry—this might hurt a bit."

Lance sucked in a breath as Keith carefully dabbed his ankle, touch surprisingly gentle. "I'm not a doctor, but if you can still flex it—can you flex it? Oh, good. Then it's likely a bad sprain." He wrapped the compress around the swelling foot and Lance watched him, eyes filling up again.

"Thank you," he choked out at last. Keith didn’t respond. His eyes wandered to the rip in Lance’s jeans where the angry scarlet wound glistened. His eyes positively slivered, and there was a near-ballistic spasm at his mouth. “We’ll have to clean that. Can you…” He tucked a hand behind his head. “…uh, take your pants off?”

Lance immediately scooted back until his back thumped against the couch end. Keith wasn’t the first one to ask that. “What? No! Get away from me!”

“You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before!” Keith snapped, grabbing Lance’s leg. Before he could give Keith a good roundhouse kick to the face, injured ankle be damned, Keith propped Lance’s foot atop a pillow. “You’ve got to keep that elevated.”

He thrust a rag and a tube into a startled Lance’s lap. “And you have to clean that before it gets infected. I’m not asking you to—to take everything off, but if it bothers you that much I’ll just look away.” He grabbed a book off the shelf and hastily looked inside despite the fact it was upside down.

He spoke again, much more quietly, “If you need help with your bandages, let me know. Otherwise, you can do it yourself and let me know when to turn around.”

Lance glared at him suspiciously but Keith remained where he was. If the cut didn’t hurt as much as it did, he’d just as soon as chafe in his wet jeans, but it hurt like a bitch, and he’d soon as not survive the night only to wind up amputating an infected limb.

He shimmied clumsily out of his jeans, cursing quietly under his breath as the fabric brushed against his gash. Keith’s head gave the slightest of twitches, but otherwise he remained where he was.

Lance’s hands shook all the while and his teeth grit, wishing for an adult—well, he was almost legally an adult—but an adultier-adult—to wash the slit clean for him. Pathetic. But in his defense, it was going to leave quite a scar. Maybe he’d have to get stitches.

After wiping his grimy hands clean on a damp towel from the tray, he smeared the gritty antiseptic on his injury.

And it promptly turned into liquid fire.

Keith was babbling something somewhere, but Lance could scarcely hear him over the tortured cry ringing somewhere nearby. Wait, that was—

Keith was by his side in an instant, voice split with urgency. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“I’m good,” Lance mumbled through grit teeth before hiding his face in a pillow. “Better than good. Fan-freaking-tastic. The bomb diggity-com, as a matter of fact. Why do you ask?”

Keith emitted something between a sigh and a groan. “Besides the fact you just hit an octave not meant for human ears? Let me guess; you’re a male soprano in your choir?”

Lance irritably turned and flipped him the bird. “Hey! That’s only a little bit true! And I’ll have you know my official classification is countertenor! Countertenor!” 

But Keith was once again unhappily inspecting Lance’s wound. Lance was beginning to wonder if Keith had fifty shades of scowls in lieu of any additional human expressions.

“Will you at least allow me to bandage this?” He asked shrewdly, and Lance only prayed Keith hadn’t noticed how badly his hands were trembling at this point. He couldn’t hold them steady.

“I’m fine!” Squawked Lance indignantly, before uncertainly glancing over at the roll of cloth bandages beside him. Oh, if only he’d become a Boy Scout and learned to do this sort of thing at camp. But he had demanded to be accepted into Girl Scouts, mainly because Lance had torrents of relatives to sell cookies to and could rock that sash and beret better than anyone else. “Um. Sort of. Well, really great. But I’d…I’d just like to see if you know how to do it. If…that’s alright with you.” 

For the briefest of seconds Lance wondered if he saw a shadow of a smile. But in a blink it was gone, and Keith silently began unwinding the bandages. “That’s…some cut. Um.” He placed a hand behind his head for a moment. “He…your stalker…did he…?”

Lance didn’t trust himself to speak for a long moment, for fear the lump moving its way up his chest and lodging itself in his trachea might burst open. Keith lowered his eyes and began spinning the fabric around the wound, touch as light and precise as a spider’s.

Lance’s ears went bright pink and he wildly wondered if one could die from sheer mortification. Keith’s hands were nerve-wrackingly close to his boxers, but thankfully Mullet wasn’t a pervert. Probably straight and really didn’t think anything of it. For some reason the thought left Lance a bit crestfallen.

“…you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” Keith said, a slightly apologetic edge creeping in.

“It’s okay,” Lance lied again. He owed Keith this much. “Like I said…I saw Dave’s car following me from my rearview mirror.” He rolled his eyes and waved his hand as if to say that was so yesterday’s news. Keith had one hell of a poker face though, so it was impossible to tell if he bought it or not. “I was kind of late getting out of school because um, well, my friend Pidge was sick a few days ago and I couldn’t borrow her notes for a test we had.” Keith hid his mouth behind a hand and Lance glared warningly at him. 

“So, the teacher made me stay late and re-take the test. I did really well, if I may so myself, considering I just read the movie review instead of the book.” His proud grin slowly evaporated.

“I got out, and then headed home. The roads were nearly deserted—probably cause of the wind chill and blizzard warning—“ He impatiently swiped at his eyes. “Man oh man, is it bright in here. And Dave just came out of nowhere and started tailgating me. I tried digging my phone out of my pocket—“

“…your phone?” Now Keith sounded skeptical.

“Well, yeah, I know you aren’t supposed to use your mobile phone behind the wheel, but I didn’t feel like I had a choice! I dug around for it and it wasn’t there. Which is weird, because I know I sent Hunk—my other best friend—a Facebook comment under his post photo of rice pudding earlier today.”

Now he felt a sharp spike of wistfulness. Hunk recreated a Cuban dish Lance’s Tia used to make before she passed away from pancreatic cancer just six months ago. And Hunk had promised to come over to his second house tomorrow so that Lance could taste-test for authenticity.

Keith tied the bandage ends in a knot, and Lance carefully sat up with a soft murmur of thanks. To his bemusement Keith pressed a hand on his chest and firmly pushed him back down again. “Hey!”

“If you get too lightheaded you could pass out. Just…keep going.”

Lance rolled his eyes, and then warily continued: “I remember I had to shove my phone in my bag pocket fast before the teacher caught me, and I buttoned it shut. I couldn’t have dropped it.” His moistening hands curled into fists, knuckles turning pearly-white. “I think he…Dave must have taken it before I went home. Seems like something he’d do.” A humorless chuckle broke free. “Somehow, probably while I was at gym. It’s not the first time he’s…dug around in my l-locker.” 

Keith settled down beside Lance, drawing up his knees and hugging them. “So…Dave was in your school…and has power over people. He’s a teacher?”

“Principal, actually.” Lance said sardonically, unaware of the fact he was clutching a pillow to his chest. “When the letters and gifts started appearing in my locker they were actually kind of sweet, though Pidge was creeped out by the fact someone could break into my locker.” His smile was wistful. “I was just psyched to have an admirer. But she was right. She always is…figures that the first person who ever hit on me was crazy.” Keith let out a noncommittal grunt, but said nothing.

“When the admirer asked me to meet after school one day in the gymnasium I definitely did. But of course it was Dave fucking Remorso.” He felt a flood of acid in his mouth.

“I really, really hoped it was just some sick joke or some misunderstanding, but he approached anyway. I…guess he f-found out somehow that I was bi. He told me he was in love with me…and that if I came over to his house like a good boy, I’d get some compensation…” Lance let out a twisted, bitter laugh. “Like just because I’m bisexual I’m some prostitute that’ll jump anything for cash or b-better grades! Sounds like a really, really bad porn film…

“Anyway, he’s some forty-too many years older than me and just…greasy looking. His face is always pink and kinda shiny. And I swear he slimed his way over to the middle of the gymnasium. He has hair growing out of his ears, these…beady little eyes, like a pig’s. And…he just...leers at people. All. The. Fucking. Time. No wonder he can’t keep a secretary.” He winced. “And honestly? Dave’s mean for meanness sake. He didn’t punish some worthless SOBs for picking on my friend Hunk for being a big guy.” Lance threw up his hands. “Hunk literally doesn’t have a mean bone in his body! He’s literally someone whom makes effing-delicious cupcakes for classmates on their birthdays. That’s how nice he is.

“He was all patient about being made of fun of, even when those fucking morons wrote fucking lies on his fucking locker. Pidge and I about lost our minds. How awful is it that harmless people get used to being treated badly?”

“…I know.” Keith said quietly. “Lance, I’m so sorry.”

“So of course when going to sir Leers-A-Lot didn’t help Pidge and I let those creeps have it. Pidge actually bit one of them,” Lance said fondly, punching the air. “We got in some serious trouble for that one…totally worth it though. Pidge was banished to her room during her suspension but she climbed out her window at night so that we could play video games while her brother covered her—”

“You were telling me about Dave?”

The embarrassment was immediate. “Sorry I just…get sidetracked sometimes. I tested positive for Attention Deficit Disorder, so sometimes it’s hard to stop my train of thought from derailing. Anyway…

“I’m standing in the gym, praying I’m just having a horrible dream I’d have to share with my future psychiatrist. But I could smell him coming…Dave just literally and figuratively stunk, and you could smell the cheap-ass body spray he used trying to cover it up. His…what he did that day…was the grossest thing that ever happened to me.”

He’d have to hurry; this story would soon be eclipsed with tears that came from a place that made him worry he’d never stop crying ever.

“Actually, I’m wrong. He grabbed me, f-fucking shoved his t-tongue down my throat and started groping m-my hips…that probably wins the ‘grossest’ category…I’m sorry, I’m probably making you sick right now, aren’t I?”

He thought he felt Keith shudder violently beside him, and positively scalding vibes pierced the air. When Lance curiously glanced at him he very nearly slipped off the sofa. Keith’s clenched teeth were bared, and his hand had twisted into the sofa upholstery so much there was white stuffing now in his grip. Uh, easy there, cowboy.

With a sickening jolt that nearly set him dry-heaving, Lance wondered if maybe Keith thought he were some dirty, contaminated fag now. It’s okay. I hate me too.

At least they had something in common.

Lance warily contemplated asking where the bathroom was. Then he could bunny-hop safely away to the backyard, though it was probably littered with corpses. And maybe Keith would give chase on a tricycle and force Lance to play a twisted survival game. Like making him uncover a key buried in a trussed-up Dave’s lower-intestine to unlock a bomb vest strapped to Lance’s chest. Oh God. Holy Maria. I’ll say a rosary. All the rosaries. I’ll maybe stop sleeping through Sunday mass sometimes if you just let me get through tonight.

But despite Keith’s ill-concealed fury and disgust, it didn’t seem as if any of it were directed at Lance himself. Lance pictured a ring of knives encircling them both, violently darting out at the rest of the world entire. He felt his head. Moly Hoses, but he probably had a concussion, though he didn’t remember hitting his head. Maybe that was just how badly concussed he really was. 

“…yes.” Keith choked out at last, resting his chin atop his kneecaps. “I…feel sick. But for your sake.”

A not unpleasant rush of heat flooded Lance’s face. “Well, thanks. I pushed Dave away and ran the hell out…I just…I couldn’t tell my parents. Saying it would just make it more real, and…” His voice broke. “I couldn’t deal with it. And my papi had enough to think about, because his twin sister was really sick. Dying sick. I mean, she was his best friend. I started seein’ white streaks appear in his hair and I didn’t wanna worry him for anything. But you better believe I didn’t sleep that night…

“I told Hunk and Pidge the admirer was just playing a practical joke on me. B-but the principal called me over the intercom to his office the next day…I was so scared but the teacher m-made me go…he got really nasty after that.” He pressed his fist to his lips and bit down hard on a knuckle.

“He told me what he would do if I told anyone. He’d flunk me. My friends. He wouldn’t let any teachers write me recommendation letters for college. H-he’d hurt me. And D-Dave said that people would just a-assume if I talked that I was just t-trying to frame him because I w-wind up in the principal’s and guidance c-counselor’s offices a lot. Like I said, I..I have a h-hard time in class sometimes, even with my meds. The school won’t really d-do much to help me there. And because D-Dave’s fucking brother is the chief of police in our stupid town, there isn’t much I can do,” he muttered thickly. “And Dave said….well, after that, he—he said I had—to crawl under his desk, and—and—“

Sure enough, the words had all the effect of Moses tapping at the rocks for water; the tears came in torrents. 

“I’m sorry…I can’t talk about it anymore. Long story short, I actually got this cut when I crashed my car.” He heard himself with a dying fall. “Oh God, Blue—that was the name of my car, a very original one if I may say so myself, by the way—my baby, is gone now.” He threw an arm over his face. “My tia polished and buffed up her old car for me for my sixteenth birthday. Now my poor Baby Blue is a wreck. I don’t know if my heart can go on!”

“…well, um…I’m sure Blue would want you to. And Lance?” Keith turned, and he suddenly looked so heartbroken Lance ached for him immediately. How could he have assumed Keith was some kind of robot? “Again, I know it does nothing, but…I’m so, so sorry. I…” His grip loosened on the upholstery, and Keith actually buried his face in his hand. “Never mind…I wish I knew what to say.”

He deliberated, and then added carefully: “If it were me though, I wouldn’t want anyone to say anything.” He seemed to be talking to himself now. “Not in the face of something that…despicable. Anything would just seem…cheap. Too small and insincere.”

“You mean like a platitude? Oh dude, I totally get you there.” Keith suddenly looked as confused as if Lance were speaking another language. “Honestly, when people notice I’m sad they’ll always tell me everything’s okay when it’s not. Who are they to tell me the sun will come out tomorrow when they have no clue what’s happening to me? It’s just…I dunno, it seems really insensitive.”

“Maybe they tell you everything’s well to convince themselves more than anything. Maybe they tell you to cheer up without asking because…they don’t truly want to know why you’re unhappy. With a situation like yours, the truth would make them…uncomfortable. I guess you’re the type who wouldn’t go out of your way to do that to anyone for anything.”

“How do you know?”

“Lucky guess,” said Keith dully. He brightened a bit.

“By all means, be uncomfortable. Be sad…if anyone deserves it right now, it’s you. I won’t hold it against you at all.”

“…thanks, I guess? Wow, you look pretty miserable right now. Sorry about that.”

“Should I be happy…dude?” The sour word dropped off as heavily as a bowling ball from Keith’s lips. 

“I hope not,” Lance said, clearly offended. “Otherwise I’d think you were a sadist. But it’s completely fine if you need to feel crummy for a bit. So do I.

“Tell ya what, let’s both feel sorry for ourselves together. We’ll wait it out. Then, when we feel less crummy, we’ll figure out what to do about it.” 

Keith did chuckle a bit at that, and Lance inwardly crowed; it felt seldom that he managed to say the right thing. Maybe he’d only said what Lance had so desperately wanted to hear for the longest time.

The two sat in a silence that was more companionable than awkward. Then Lance scrubbed at his face and continued: 

“…well, Hunk and Pidge were mad as hell when they finally dragged the truth out of me. They noticed I was completely off for awhile. And they did try to help me, they really did, but nothing worked. Like I said, even the police weren’t any good. Hunk and Pidge would flank me like the secret service in the halls and try to cheer me up, but they just couldn’t really…”

“…really understand.”

“Right. You see, my parents eventually found out I had a stalker because these awful letters kept coming in the mail. I wasn’t even safe at home. And then p-packages kept coming. Just…things like b-broken glass, dead insects, creepy outfits, or a b-baby doll in pieces. My mami eventually found out because she found the stuff I kept shoving at the bottom of the garbage can…my folks freaked.”

“How nice for you.” The words were dripping in sarcasm.

Lance shot Keith a dark look. “Hey! What else were they supposed to do?”

“What indeed?” Keith murmured, bowing his head until his bangs fell over his eyes. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. Just…please. Go on.”

Lance didn’t want to continue in the slightest, and he very nearly said so again. Still, this had festered inside for so many months and he couldn’t stand it any longer. Not after tonight.

“My parents put me in the hot seat. I said I d-didn’t know whom the stalker was…if they knew, they’d at least try pulling me out of school. At least. I honestly thought mami was ready to recant her general disapproval of decapitation. But pulling me out of school wasn’t really wasn’t an option.”

“You’d…” Keith took a deep breath. It irked Lance that the other boy was so clearly mincing the words ‘so you’d miss your friends too much to care about being used? Or do you just like being taken advantage of?’ He wouldn’t mind decking Keith for that one if it weren’t vital Lance stay here for the time being. “Why wouldn’t it be an option?”

“Well, for starters our town is tiny, if you remember correctly. There’s really only one other high school available, and it’s this fancy prep place.” Keith’s hands recurled into fists on his lap. “It’s really expensive. My parents would probably take a loan out to get me in…and they can’t afford that. You try raising five adopted kids you wanna see go to college with blue-collar salaries.”

“Wow.” Keith sounded amazed. “Five…that must be…not boring.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“None. Are you the baby of the family?”

“Wha—you don’t have any evidence for that!”

“Am I wrong?”

“Stoppit,” Lance complained, pouting at Keith’s smirk. “My parents would have to move to get me to a new school, and I didn’t want that. My dad wanted to be near my aunt’s hospital. The next town over is Westwood, and that’s over an hour away because we have the privilege of living in East Jesus nowhere. I just…even if I were away from Dave, he’d find some way to get revenge. And anyway, what happened to me just wouldn’t…aagh! God, it’s impossible to say what I mean!” 

“The worst thing about something as ghastly as what happened to you is the fact that even after it’s technically over, it doesn’t stop happening to you. You don’t stop reliving it.” Slowly, as if of its own accord, Keith’s hand reached for Lance’s, paused, and then hurriedly drew away again.

“No. You don’t. So I just…didn’t see any point in telling them the truth. I really thought I just had to wait until graduation. I had no idea he was going to go…this far.”

“Thank you for that.”

“Um…sure?”

Keith cleared his throat. "You're still dripping wet. I can grab you a blanket to wrap in if you like.”

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to get your furniture wet—"

Keith shook his head. "Seriously, don’t worry. I just don't want you to catch your death."

Humming, Lance happily peeled off his coat and shirt with a sigh of relief. Keith stared at him with eyes the size of dinner plates before he grabbed the wet garments before hurrying out the room. Strange guy.

The sound of a snap made Lance jump, and he turned to look at a roaring fire which had certainly not been there before.

"Oh, you have one of those cool modern electric fires," he said eagerly as Keith returned and tossed him a quilt. Lance happily bundled up like a caterpillar. He thought the fireplace looked ancient, but you could make anything look like anything for the right amount of money. "That's awesome—you can just flick on one anytime you want. My dad makes me haul wood inside if we want one. Pretty sure that’s a violation of child labor laws.

"Yeah. Yes, um—that's a relatively new addition. This house is historical, so this town can't raze it. Not that anyone would care to, anyway—this place is in the middle of nowhere, just as you said."

"The middle of nowhere in the middle of nowhere," Lance pointed out, and was pleased when Keith laughed. A little more color did trickle into Lance’s face as the stranger poured what smelled strongly of anti-septic into another cloth, and leaned forward to wipe it on his face. It stung fiercely; he must be raked raw. "Sorry, sorry," he apologized as Lance yelped, fanning himself desperately. "Have to clean these."

Lance whined, but the prospect of looking like someone whom just attempted to give a cat a bath made the pain semi-worthwhile. "Does it look bad?"

"Yeah. It really does."

“You weren’t supposed to agree with me,” Lance griped as Keith re-soaked the cloth. “Man, oh man, I’m going to have to scrub aloe vera all over my mug later.”

"This will just take a moment. Promise.”

"Wai—“ Keith cupped Lance’s cheek to hold his head steady. He prayed the latter didn't feel it burn as Keith dabbed at the slashes.

Keith slowly withdrew, reaching for a glass on the table which was filled with something dark and pushed it into Lance's hands. Lance was still too distracted by the stinging to notice the glass had been empty just seconds before. And Keith had not poured anything. “Here—this’ll warm you up a bit more.”

Lance’s eyelashes brushed his cheekbones. This was contraband, but well-deserved just the same. He took a tiny sip of the maroon contents and coughed at the dry tang; he seldom this tasted outside of communion.

Keith wandered away to lean against the wall, perching his foot against the wall and folding his arms under his head. The picture of nonchalance. 

"You know," He turned to look at the flames, expression inscrutable. "I've never met someone whom just…came out and said that before, like it was nothing." He gazed at Lance again, looking almost hungry and nope, Lance was not going to even consider that. "It's not something I've managed yet."

Lance frowned, confused. "Come out and—" His eyes widened. "You…"

Keith dipped his head in the smallest of nods. "Yes. Though I've never told my parents. It—" Now it was his turn to visibly struggle. "I'm certain you already know how hard it is."

"…you can't tell them? At all?"

"I never could. Not if I wanted to stay in this house."

Lance’s heart broke not for the first time tonight. Here was a math problem: How many more fractures did those pieces have left in them? "Oh God. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

“Me too.”

Lance squirmed with discomfort as he took another swig of wine. Shortly after Lance and his elder sister came out, his parents took their cue to convert to LGBT-friendly American Catholicism. Lance adored his parents for it, had bragged about his progressive Cuban Catholic family to Pidge and Hunk until Pidge generously offered to help Lance locate his long-lost off-button. But now Lance had to admit he’d simply taken it for granted that supporting your kids to the death was just what parents were supposed to do. Parents whom were ready to disown their queer or trans kids normally belonged in sad movies or TV dramas wherein at least one of the gay protagonists died.

Before he could think about it Lance hurled a pillow at the wall. Ironically, he thought for the first time that night how unfair life really was.

“Was that really necessary?” Keith asked, sounding more perplexed than upset. “The least you can do is not throw my stuff everywhere. Are you some kind of lightweight?

“Yes it was, No it isn’t, and no I’m not,” snapped Lance, swaying fists rising at the ready. He jabbed at the air like a boxer. ‘Bitches, I will fight you.’ “Keith, it’s not fair, you don’t deserve to live like this!” His voice rose to a shout. “No one does! Hunk probably deserves this a little less than you do! You saved me!”

Keith admired his shoes. His brow was creased, but he almost looked pleased. “In case you haven’t noticed, the universe doesn’t exactly work on a bartering system. It’s an arbitrary genetic lottery. It’s no good complaining about it; what matters is how you work with what you’ve got.”

“Not when other people are getting lemons and you get dealt…something way nastier than lemons. Like grapefruit. Or my friend Shiro’s cooking; I once tasted something he tried cooking for the martial arts bake sale. After I handed out some free samples, people paid him to never bake again.” Lance reflexively smacked his fist against his wound and nearly doubled over in agony.

Keith mutely plucked the wineglass out of Lance’s loosening grip. Lance looked up at him with his copyrighted get-out-of-jail face. “Look. Just because you got dealt a crappy hand at birth doesn’t mean you’re helpless to change things. Or that other people can’t hand you a card or a lemon from their backyard tree.”

“You’re seriously being solipsistic here. How much do I have to pay you to put a cork in it? You can’t do anything to help me. No one can. And you don’t need to get involved. It would be pointless at best.”

“I don’t know what ‘solipsistic’ means, but if I can somehow help you out with your situation, I have to. And it’s not just because you saved me, but because no one deserves to live in fear. Well, okay, Dave makes a compelling case. And if your parents are holding a knife over your head, then I want to protect you.”

Keith made a derisive noise. “You. Protect me. That’s rich.”

Lance refrained from chucking a pillow at Keith’s face with great difficulty. “My parents always told me if a PFLAG friend found themselves living in a toxic environment or out of a home, they’d have a place in our guest room and a space at our table.” Now Keith’s face was chiseled with grief. “A person’s job is to help a sister out.”

“Hey!”

“And that’s not some big favor you need to feel ashamed or too proud to accept. When you took me in, I bet you didn’t do it because you wanted me to owe you a solid or that it made you a saint or something. You helped me because it felt like basic human decency right? And you’d never have bothered if you thought it was useless to try. Look, decency’s just your job as a person. So it should be mine to stand in your corner and sock your mean folks if you need me to. Or if you don’t need me to, actually. Pidge would actually probably be happy to bite them for you if you asked.”

Keith placed a hand on the grandfather clock, and Lance wondered if Keith were trying to steady himself this time. “Wow. You’re some idealist, Lance.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s not a compliment, just an observation,” he said shortly, glancing over as the clock struck seven: Dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong. “I’m afraid you’re much, much too late to help me with my parents and living situation, but I won’t pretend I don’t appreciate the sentiment.”

"Do you know for sure?" Lance couldn't help but ask. "That they wouldn't…ever accept…"

"One hundred and ten percent," Keith said offhandedly, though there was a slight tremor. "My parents have made it perfectly clear to me what they think of homosexuals."

"What's that?"

"That they should be gassed."

Lance attempted to stand. Keith strode back to the sofa and pushed Lance down again. “What about ‘you need to stay down’ says ‘try, try again?’

But as Keith leaned over him, Lance took his opportunity to hug him. Keith froze, arms gluing to his sides, bony frame abruptly tensing as if for a fight. His hand plunged into his pocket and grasped long knife handle. But Lance let out a muffled sob from where his face was buried against Keith’s jacket. “Oh. Oh my God. K-Keith, I…”

Keith’s grip loosened as Lance’s grip tightened. The sobs started ripping free again, making his own thin frame quake as if he were on the verge of a rupture. Lance garbled something utterly unintelligible as Keith helplessly looked around the room, eyes dilating.

Hiccupping, Lance reluctantly pulled away. With any luck Keith didn’t notice his black shirt was now shiny from tears and mucus.

“And you had to grow up with that? Oh…” He bumped his forehead against Keith’s midsection, snuffling. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Keith hurriedly tapped his palm twice against the crown of Lance’s head. Hot tears were falling thick and fast against him. Slowly, very slowly, Keith’s shoulders drooped from where they’d hunched at his ears just seconds ago, and managed another pat on Lance’s back. Then he lightly rested a hand there.

“This is happening?” Lance blubbered something and Keith unsuccessfully tried deciphering it. “Um. This is happening. Are you seriously making this much noise over someone you literally just met?”

Lance fell back, arms still wrapped around Keith’s frame. “Of course I am! How are you still alive? Please tell me you’re almost eighteen and can get out of this hellhole soon. Again, if you need help, I’ll help you escape.”

Keith still hadn’t really relaxed in the embrace, but he did tolerate it. Lance was briefly reminded of how bewildered Pidge when he and Hunk first introduced her to hugging that would shame a full-grown bear. Soon after her reciprocal hugs were just as tight (i.e, tighter) and she clung to them like a koala.

“Seriously. You really don't need to apologize for something that isn’t your fault. But…thank you.” Keith gently extracted himself, and Lance had a refresher of that fixated stare from their initial meeting reappearing. He wasn’t certain if it were flattering or slightly disconcerting that now Keith was looking at him with all the fascination of a zoo patron finding an exotic species. He suddenly felt himself wriggling under a pin.

"Are they…are they here tonight?" Lance asked nervously. “Your folks.” 

The flames suddenly surged with a roar in the hearth. "No. For better or for worse, it's just you and I. Let’s say they're away….they’ve been away for awhile." He snorted near-inaudibly. "And I'm afraid they took the car with them."

This was a chalk slash on Lance’s mental board for ‘Reasons to be Relieved’ and ‘Reasons to Accidentally Drop the Nearby Fire Poker on Keith’s Parents’ Heads 11 Times.’ "When will they be back?"

“My parents are actually…out of the country right now." He grinned weakly. Lance didn’t realize until much, much later that Keith never answered the second question. “They're on their own winter vacation, and I'm…I'm on mine. It's peaceful enough here and I can do all the reading I like, but it's felt like a very, very, very long vacation."

"…I'm…"

Keith actually poked Lance on the forehead and Lance reflexively swiped at him.. "I'm going to start charging you money every time you apologize for things you can’t change. But don't worry; even if they're not here, I have enough food to last us through a nuclear holocaust and life in a post-apocalyptic society."

That wasn't very reassuring to Lance. The sentiment must've registered on his face, because Keith added, "You don't have to worry about anyone tossing you out. They haven't been back for ages, and even if they were headed our way, the snow would keep them from coming. I honestly haven't seen so much in years."

Suddenly Lance remembered his own situation, and mentally awarded himself the title of the stupidest person alive for having briefly forgotten it. But he'd been genuinely moved for Keith's troubles and his mind whirring with possible solutions; how much he wanted to call in the calvary to take Keith away from here. "Do you have a phone? I need…"

He was faced with the awful truth; Dave couldn't be allowed to threaten anyone else and he'd have to speak up. Maybe he could bypass the police and contact the FBI instead; they’d certainly be more impartial than Dave’s stupid brother. “I’ve got to call my parents. It’s way past my curfew now, and they’re probably losing their shit already.”

Keith's face fell a little at that. "I'm afraid…we do not. Have a telephone, I mean."

Lance’s mind wiped itself immaculately clean.

"How do you…" he began, and the concept was so utterly alien to him he briefly considered the possibility that Keith were an alien too. At least half-alien. "Your parents left you here alone without a phone? Not even a cell phone?"

"…I don't have a…cell phone." Keith faltered. "I mean, we did have a phone once, but it was disconnected. And no one ever really bothered to replace it."

"…but you have Wi-Fi," Lance heard himself croak. "And I can still send a message to the authorities via email—"

"I'm afraid not. I don't have any of these things."

He waited to hear an added ‘Early April Fool’s!’ Or, ‘Late April Fools!’ But as Keith steadily held his gaze and looked so genuinely contrite, Lance re-learned the cruel lesson that however much you wanted something there was certainly no guarantee that you would get it. Just the opposite, really. The story of his life.

Lance inhaled sharply, but the air didn't seem to reach his lungs. Inhale. Inhale. Inhale. Something was missing. His head wobbled on his shoulders and his teeth rattled a little.

"Lance? Lance, breathe. Look at me."

Oh. Breathing was good. He barely managed to obey. Keith’s dark eyes—they were warmer than Lance imagined up close—held his own. “Steady. Hold your breath, just for a moment, just a moment…let it out again. Hold—I know, I know, it's hard, but it will be okay, hold, that's good, hold, and slowly release. Very good. Another. And again. Remember, slow, deep breaths. And a bit deeper than that, from your diaphragm. That's good.” Keith gave him an approving shoulder jostle. “You've done fantastic tonight.”

“I don’t know what I did fantastically, but I’m sure I did, thanks. Uh, what was it again?” 

“Call it intuition, but I suspect anyone else in your situation would be dead by now.” Lance suddenly felt glass being pressed into his hands again. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you should probably have a few more sips.”

Lance held his glass in both hands like a sippy cup, and unsteadily gulped it down, sloshing on his front. Why did wine connoisseurs pretend they could taste notes of orange peel or oak when wine just tasted like wine? But he was profoundly relieved that someone else was more or less in charge for a change because he was on the verge of falling to pieces. He savored the warm bloom in the pit of his stomach and the quickest sensation of Keith’s hand stroking his back.

"There really isn't…you really don't have wii-fii at all?"

Keith hesitated again, and then drew a wet strand of Lance's hair back. "No."

"…any neighbors nearby whom do?"

"I'm afraid not. This house was built by my grandfather to be a summer home far, far away from his business partners at the logging firm he owned in Altea. Otherwise they were forever calling him for help and advice even when he was on vacation…I think that's why my grandmother disconnected the phone to begin with. No one else has bothered building out here since, and believe you me, I've wandered the area a long time."

Keith rose and went to look out the window. Lance wobbled as he stood again in alarm, arms circling like windmills to stay upright.

"What are you doing? Close them! He might see you!"

"Not in this snow, he won't," retorted Keith as he pulled back the drape a bit more so that Lance could see. Lance gawked, and wondered faintly if what he saw now was proof of the existence of an all-powerful, omniscient deity. Although whether or not said deity loved or hated him tonight remained yet to be seen.

Enormous, fat snowflakes, the kind that looked like they belonged in a snow globe, were spinning from the heavens in droves. The wind was rising, whistling, and while Lance’s spirits lifted slightly with the knowledge that an incoming blizzard might deter Dave from pursuing him, it would also strand Lance here.

For who knew how long.

He swayed. He was in the middle of the wilderness, with no phone, no internet, no neighbors, his car miles away and concealed near a forest no one was likely to visit anytime soon. Not in this weather. Only Keith's soothing admonitions that he remember to breathe kept him from another full-scale panic attack.

He closed his eyes, the full implications washing over him. Dave certainly wouldn't divulge that Lance was missing because he'd tried to disembowel him. His mind spun with dread; Hunk and Pidge would make a beeline for his old haunts, but no one could tell them anything.

Even he didn't know where he was.

He’d so been looking forward to the prospect of having a snow day after watching that morning's forecast. Christ, but that seemed so long ago. There had even been the prospect of a few days off, considering the wind chill that was going to hit…

"Where's my coat? I should go, while I have the chance." Lance said faintly, opening his eyes again. "I…I have to make my way back, before it gets too bad…follow the tracks I left before they disappear tonight."

"Don't be ridiculous," Keith said at once, letting the curtain fall again. "And lie back down, Lance."

"I managed before."

"Barely! It's a wonder you escaped at all from that menace!"

"…do you have a snow-blower? I'd accept a dog sled team at this point."

Keith’s annoyed but pitying eyes told him before he'd finished speaking that it was no use. "It's already looking terrible out, and I'm not about to let you go into a storm hurt and with a…a devil out for your blood." He shook his head in a firm no. "I'm sorry, Lance."

Lance knew Keith was right, but that didn't stop him from nearly toppling to his ground like some stupid Victorian woman with the vapors and why did he feel so fucking fragile tonight when he'd made it a point for so long to be strong? Even when he'd been physically sick in the mornings with fear before school, he'd hid it. Now he couldn't stop feeling as weak as if there'd never be anything again.

The back of his knees hit the couch and he fell back upon it again, hands gripping his hair. Admittedly, temporary confinement didn't seem like such a bad trade-off for not being killed, but snowbound. He was snowbound, for an entire night—possibly many. Though he understood Dave's insanity was not the least bit his fault, there was a hot rush of guilt and panic as he imagined his parents waiting for a son who wouldn’t come home that night.

A second later Keith was standing in front of him again, thumbing away the fresh wave of tears. "Whatever it might mean from someone you've never met, I won't let him in, and I certainly won't allow him to harm you. I promise. Oh…I'll protect you, I promise."

And at that moment Keith cradled him and allowed Lance to bury his face in his shoulder. He rocked back and forth, murmuring comforting nonsense. It was well (or really, really not) that Lance didn’t care how tightly he was being clutched, or that he couldn't see the large, dazzling smile slowly unfurling on Keith’s face, burning eyes bright with near-manic ecstasy.


	2. The Gentle One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One problem is resolved, and a WHOLE host of others come pouring in. This chapter title might be rated I for Irony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! ❤ You guys are so cool; thank you for the warm welcome to scary story writing. I can't tell you how much I appreciate you. :) Really hope you enjoy this next segment. Feedback is very helpful!

o-O-o

* * *

 

Much later, Lance was wrapped in a woolly afghan, holding a hot mug of milk and honey (and possibly something a little stronger, judging by the smoky, bittersweet aftertaste.) A plate of untouched cookies sat on the table. The two remained curled up on the sofa, gazing at the fire in silence that was more companionable than awkward. 

Keith was absently gliding his hand soothingly up and down Lance’s back, albeit much more slowly now. The two were close enough that their thighs glanced off each other, a fact Lance was acutely aware of. His stomach was turning somersaults once again, but certainly not badly so. And his face was beginning to hurt from smiling, although he was only dimly aware of it.

Being the only openly-gay student in school, or one of so few in this tiny thicket of gas stations and fast food joints of a town for that matter occasionally made Lance feel like some sort of rare, exotic bird behind glass people gawked at. And while Lance had no problem flaunting his inner-Rainbow Brite, as Pidge so thoughtfully coined it, the fact there was simply no one like himself within a thousand-mile radius occasionally made him ache with quiet desperation.

When he climbed out of his bedroom onto the roof and looked at the stars, every inner-inch protested that he wasn’t _meant_ to live here, even though he recoiled at the idea of leaving his family too-far behind.  

Lance flicked his eyes over to Keith, whose eyes were reflecting the firelight. Lance shifted closer by a hair of an inch.

 And as dear as his best friends were, they could hardly really grasp the reality that so much of the world despised Lance for simply being alive.

His head sagged and very nearly bumped against Keith’s shoulder; Lance all but squeaked and straightened like a soldier at attention. He wished on Blue’s dearly-departed soul that Keith owed any trembling on his part to be due from his ordeal, and not from the fact that another gay man was willingly touching him.

 _Without_ wanting to bury him alive.

The clock ticked soothingly nearby as the wind roared and whimpered outside. This safe-soft-stillness with someone so irrevocably-kind (though he suspected Keith would kill him if he said that again) was delightful, though he inadvertently made himself wistful in wishing to stay frozen in this moment.

Lance fought against eyelids which seemed determined to sew themselves shut. But at last he self-consciously cleared his throat and Keith looked at him. It was still difficult to speak.

"I'm…" Keith thumbed a stray tear away, touch lingering in a caress. Lance’s breath hitched. "I didn't mean to sound ungrateful earlier," he apologized fervently. "Or that I minded spending a…little while here.  _Thank you."_  Somewhat timidly—after all, he'd never another guy's hand since it mattered—he took Keith's, their fingers tangling. "I would’ve died without you. If not because of hypothermia, because of homophobia." He snorted quietly. "If I had to run into another gay person on the run, I'm glad he isn't the murderous, self-loathing type."

Slowly, the earnestness on Keith’s face melted, and his mouth abruptly spasmed in a near-berserk contortion. Furious pupils split open wide, and he spat, _"Hypocrites."_  

Spooked, Lance uneasily made to draw away but Keith’s hold on Lance’s hand tightened.

The room's temperature seemed to plummet as the flames shuddered warningly, but that was probably Lance superimposing his own growing dread as Keith ranted, “Filthy, conniving  _hypocrites_. They always manage to point a finger at someone else. It's not just disgusting, it's _evil_." He shook his head and leaned in close, close, way too close for Lance’s comfort. His voice dipped into a snarl.

"Hell isn't enough, not when they make hell on Earth. Someone has to do something about it."

"...um…that'd be nice," Lance agreed warily, disconcerted by the fact that Keith’s voice was stained with venom. And for a fleeting, frightening instant he wondered if he ought to have taken his chances out in the forest.

Keith’s lacerating gaze kept Lance wriggling like an insect pinned to the wall. Not at all sure what to do, Lance settled for pulling Keith into another careful hug, timidly patting his back. Keith seemed to be the one whom liked grasping Lance still as if he were a dog, but it was Lance whom thought, _Down, boy_.

Why was he catnip for crazies? Did Lance force kittens to burrow into the Earth for blood diamonds in a prior lifetime? _Maybe I forced orphans to do that. Not just orphans, but musically-inclined orphans. The worst kind of orphan there is._

"But for every Dave there's someone like you, and that  _does_  give me some hope for mankind." The heat in the room rose perceptibly by a few inches. "And trust me, that hope can be in short supply, especially when there’s so much scum about that’s about as useful as a ham sandwich at a bar mitzvah.”

Keith let out a startled laugh, and Lance smiled weakly as he pulled back. To his profound relief there wasn't a trace left of the antagonism that had chiseled Keith's features into something Stygian and cruel. It was like comparing cherubim to an actual angel of death.

Lance’s eyes wandered back to the windows, and with a nasty crash remembered again where the real fear was. "I wonder if he's lost by now." His cold-blistered hands twisted in wool. "If he is and stumbles on this place, he's…he's going to break in. Dave's…calling him a complete _psychopath_  is generous."

Keith’s eyes scissored into Lance's again. "He won't come in. No. If he tries, I'm prepared."

Lance bit his lip so hard the skin nearly broke. The idea of Keith harming anyone, even Dave, was appalling.

"Okay. Needless to say, I don't want you to...resort to that." Was it just Lance’s imagination, or was Keith suppressing a grim smile that said  _Yes, I very well would_? “Let’s calm down. Let’s imagine Dave’s a soldier whose mom gets a folded flag, and leave it at that.”

"We  _are_  allowed to defend ourselves if he breaks and enters."

“Why do I get the feeling you’d do that even if we weren’t?”

“I think my estimation of your IQ just rose a few points.”

“Hey!” Lance dipped his fingers in his mug of milk and flicked them at Keith, whom flicked him in turn in the forehead in turn. "Ow! That's not—are you  _sure_  you don't have—"

"I'm afraid not." Keith said seriously, propping his elbow atop the couch. "The most we could hope to do is go outside with some seed, hope a carrier pigeon spots us in the dark in the dead of winter, and send a message for help that way."

At first Lance goggled at him; a second later a giggle bubbled out despite himself. Keith tilted his head, looking pleased.

"Right now your wet things are hanging over the radiator, so you’ll need some new clothes. I, ah, wouldn't mind you letting you borrow some of mine. They might be a bit big on you, but better that then you getting sick. But before that, you can take a bath if you like.” 

A bath sounded _heavenly_ , as did new clothes; Lance was still wrapped up in a blanket burrito. "Thank you," he said hoarsely, knowing he could hawk every item in his wardrobe and it still wouldn't be nearly enough to repay Keith. "Do you have a dryer? That might work faster than drip-drying."

"Well, they should be dry by morning in any case. We have a spare bedroom you're more than welcome to use."

His eyes rolled back in barely-suppressed glee. "God, you're an angel and a saint, and I don’t know if I believe in either. You've  _got_ to have a boyfriend."

Keith’s face steadily darkened again, and Lance almost asked if Keith could kindly point him to the nearest window for him to throw himself out of. Then again, the snow might break his fall. Maybe Keith would dare him to try. Maybe Lance wouldn’t blame him.   

"…no," said Keith bitterly, voice barely perceptible. “I don’t. Anymore.”

He helped a sheepish Lance to his uninjured foot and wrapped a bracing arm around him. Giddying at the contact, Lance hoped the trip would take some time yet.

They hobbled to the foyer, and Lance now noticed a fiercely-sparkling chandelier that was a veritable spider-web of glass stars, with trickling ropes of pearl and crystal.

The exact preservation of this house must’ve been Keith’s grandmother’s dying wish. Lance thought that the commitment to authenticity in this home was incredible; the black and white portraits on the walls were all in sepia-dulled frames. The floral embroideries were a bit much though. This place seemed like a historical home bored students might troop through during a field trip.

"Keith.” He frantically noted that his mouth seemed to be moving of its own accord. He was a dummy after all. "Your parents would've left you…here alone …without any point of contact, whatsoever." It came out as a statement rather than a question.

"Yes." Keith shrugged. "It's just the way things are."

"I'm..." He shook his head as they came to a stop, peering up the stairs. "I'm just…concerned on your behalf." Another deep breath. "And _mad_. For you. You must've been so lonely."

"…I don’t want your pity, Lance.”

“Well, then you can take my good foot and—“

“But thank you for that anyway."

"There's nothing to thank  _me_ for," Lance muttered grudgingly. He couldn't help but wonder why in the world Keith's home lacked such vital connections to the outside world, especially so far away from civilization. And he'd never visited a house that didn't have at least one television. Maybe Keith’s family belonged to an ultra-strict religion that prohibited modern conveniences? It might explain why this stiff and starched excuse of a house was some social conservative’s wet dream. “Hey Keith? Are your parents seriously religiously-observant, or something?”  

"In so far as Episcopalians are, which is a far cry from being an observant Baptist. Do you like it?" Keith asked, gesturing around. He looked a bit worried.

"I do,” Lance said, a little too brightly. “When was the house built, if you don't mind my asking?"

"It was started in the late 1890s, and finished around probably 1908 if I remember correctly. So that means….this house is…how old now?"

Lance did some mental math. "Somewhere between _‘Oh God’_ and _‘Whoa.’_ Over a hundred years old."

Keith froze. A violent shudder passed through him a second later, and his arms promptly fell.

Lance flapped as futilely as a penguin attempting flight to stay upright, but nearly toppled over before Keith grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. _“Dude!_ I thought you wanted to save my life, not finish Dave’s job! _”_

"Sorry,” Keith’s voice came out much too small. “I’m _sorry_ ….I just….”

Eyes watering, Lance’s annoyance nonetheless abated somewhat as Keith draped an arm around his shoulder again. While Keith avoided his eyes, Lance throught he almost looked on the verge of tears. “Hey. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. In fact, I think it’s kind of cool. Even if the décor doesn’t really seem like…you.” 

"So you say, _dude_. And well, you can certainly argue my parents won't get with the times." Keith gave him a small smile, and did Lance's mouth have to go dry _every_ time he did that? "But you know what I think?"

"What?"

"That you're still wet and will die of pneumonia soon if you're not careful," Keith teased, and without warning he scooped Lance into his arms.

" _Hey!"_

"Sorry." Keith gestured cheerfully up the spiral staircase. "It's going to take forever to get you up otherwise."

"I—oh for the love of crap, I’m not an invalid! I promise I can lean on the banister."

"Yes, well, you can also tumble down the stairs. You're hurt enough as it is."

"But I'm too heavy," protested Lance breathlessly as Keith slowly ascended. “You’re just going to drop me!”

“Well, I’m _sorry_ if that’s what will _happen_ if you keep elbowing me in the _face.”_

Lance sulked but lay still, mentally altering the ugly wallpaper in order to distract himself. He was admittedly hoping he didn't swoon against Keith's breast with excitement. Fuck, years of _nothing_ , not even a girl whom ever really wanted anything to do with him save for that classmate Lance bribed with a cupcake in second grade. And now there was a near-stranger carrying him up a tower.

Or basically up a basement’s steps, considering just how deep this building’s bones sank in the snow, but that was close enough.

Lance silently contemplated Keith, forgetting his thanks. This kind of sentiment would’ve made him positively swoon whilst reading one of the romance novels he stashed underneath his bed like contraband. In real life however, it was mildly…well, if certainly not-unwelcome, it took him aback. 

Being carried up the stairs, being so carefully held as if he were something precious, was baffling. _Keith_ was baffling, considering he was the not-handsome but nonetheless _wonderful_ boy Lance had dreamt of having all those years he’d lived in his head, wherein everyone adored him and he was somehow inherently worthy of love.

Probably sensing his stare, Keith peered down at him in surprise and Lance inspected his fingertips with an inflamed face. He went back to imagining the walls had an astronaut-dinosaur-fighting-robots print.

This moment left him at a loss, struck dumb. It was downright disarming to be looked at with such fascination when he felt he’d done little to earn it.

When they reached the second floor Keith carried him down a long hall lined with doors. Lance was admittedly relieved there weren’t any torches or portraits with moving eyeballs to be seen.

"My advice to you is to take a long soak and come out when you're feeling better. In the meantime I'll make you some soup."

"Oh, you really don't have to go through all tha—"

"No, I'm just heating it up, really. Please don't worry. I imagine sprinting through the woods has a means of building up an appetite." A second later Keith looked utterly mortified and he cursed under his breath, shaking his head. "God, I didn't mean to make light of your horrible experience. I'm sorry."

"We should get an 'Overly-Excessive Sorry' jar. We'll have it filled by morning."

Keith chuckled and they entered the bathroom, which was an enormous and near-empty chamber. This time the walls were pale, bare and cracked. The toilet had a rusty chain in lieu of a tab, the porcelain sink was _tiny,_ and above it was a very large mirror with tinted glass in a baroque-style frame. An enormous bathtub which looked larger than Lance’s bed at home rested on clawed feet.

Lance carefully dropped to one foot to lean against the sink as Keith retrieved towels and extra soap from behind the mirror. "Here's an extra toothbrush. I'll get some pajamas. Um." He ran a hand through his hair and cleared his throat more than what Lance thought was strictly necessary. "I'll just…lead you to the tub and…yeah. You can…run the water and stuff…while I…while I cook. And things. You’ll—you’ll like the things. Um, food. I’ll cook food. Food is good.”

Keith extended his hand, which Lance looked at blankly for a long moment before slowly allowing Keith to lead him to the tub. Keith to his credit stepped away the moment Lance grabbed the rim, his knuckles turning white. "Just shout if you need anything.”

"Thank you. I can't tell you how much I appreciate—"

Lance lapsed mid-sentence as he turned; Keith had already disappeared. There was a set of folded pajamas neatly lying on the floor, toiletries stacked atop them.

Lance slowly picked up the red, black and white-striped shirt. Faded but warm. They smelled like Keith, and he pressed his cheek against the fabric.

Then he clumsily stripped and filled the tub, eagerly sinking in the hot water and hissing sharply through clenched teeth as it rushed over his poor scratched limbs and the stub of an ankle. His lips parted slightly as he hummed dreamily, eyes rolling back as steam wafted around him.

This was the least-likely scenario Lance could've dreamt this nightmare would’ve ended in.  He was and wasn't pleased to stay; Keith was slightly-annoying, but attentive and gracious to a fault, and Lance would've loved having dinner with him.

Under drastically different circumstances.

Pruning fingertips wandered to his spine, and then to his lips. What might that kind of touch be like, in lieu of a sociopath’s whom—

Lance immediately plunged underwater, opening his eyes in the gloom as his hair swirled lazily around.

He re-emerged, frowning slightly and flesh prickling. He hastily lathered his soap in hopes of creating some foam to cover himself; he felt curiously exposed, as if he were taking a bath in front of a live audience. Maybe it was due to the fact that he was naked in a house with only one other occupant, one he couldn’t stop thinking about.

These walls couldn't talk, but it felt as if they had eyes, one for every cell and nerve ending of him. All fixated on him. Lance cursed as the grainy soap kept slipping from his fingertips, and tried not to remember why he stopped showering at school shortly after Dave graciously declared a vendetta on Lance’s life.

And, Lance sadly acknowledged as he scrubbed his face (he felt like Lady Macbeth, unable to remove the filth regardless of however much he scoured himself) his right to feel safe _anywhere_. He’d been reduced to a wild rabbit whose best defense was to _bolt_ when he saw Dave waving merrily at him in school, church, or fucking P-flag meetings.

That lazy smile, those eyes that twinkled as if he and Lance were sharing a particularly good joke, found their way into every room Lance triple-checked was locked. Lance hadn’t dared inspect the bathroom mirror tonight, because he knew they’d be lingering over his shoulder, contemplating him with patient amusement.

They shone in the dark of a seventeen year old’s closet, and beneath his bed. And they said, _I am everywhere, and everything, including your sleepless nights. You are alive for now, but your having that life is enough to make me want to tenderly take it apart, piece by piece. Because I can. Because I’m bigger than you._

_But I love you. In my little way._

There were no safe spaces left. Just stupid people.

Lance’s heightened paranoia was probably a natural response after his flight, and he couldn’t help but wish his arm was wound over Keith’s shoulders again. Without it being weird. Being carried like he was all of five had actually been a little weird. It was too vulnerable a position for him to be comfortable with. _That sure as hell better not have been Keith establishing himself as Alpha-gay of this household._    

There was something mildly unsettling about this home, and about Keith himself. Certainly that wasn't fair, not when Keith was his savior and there were dentist waiting rooms more intimidating than this doily-draped house was on the inside. But it was true just the same.

Why though? Maybe it was just because Keith had creepy, homophobic and neglectful parents whom deserved nothing less than what Hunk called cancer-aids. But you couldn't pick your parents; it was hardly Keith’s fault. Part of Lance’s unease could obviously be attributed to the fact that this place was _clearly_ unsafe for a gay youth, despite the fact the culprits were away.

 (' _That they should be gassed.')_

That was very possibly the worst thing he’d ever heard. Lance pressed his brow against the warm tub. Keith needed to be taken away from those pernicious people, and this lonely house. There could be nothing for him here. 

o-O-o

By the time the water ran tepid and Lance unwillingly pulled the chain-plug free, he realized he was trapped; his puffy pink ankle hurt so much he knew it wouldn’t bear his weight any longer. He gingerly perched on his good foot and gripped the bathtub rim for purchase as he attempted to roll over the side.

But the porcelain was much too slippery, and he kept sliding down the long walls of the tub like a toddler. After several attempts Lance swore and banged his fist against the porcelain floor in pure frustration. He must look completely ridiculous, and if Keith saw him he’d die out of sheer shame if nothing—

—he caught a flash of black and Lance’s eyes swiveled up and Keith was gazing down at him. Lance’s back hit the tub wall as he let out a a strangled noise; no, not Keith, just his eyes, those dark eyes _glittering_ in the _ceiling—_

But just as Lance opened his mouth to scream he blinked and the eyes vanished. Breathing spiking, pupils shrinking to pinpricks, he curled up in a painful ball and remained as deathly still as a child whom believes their blankets provide some protection against white-eyed monsters waiting to eat your screaming too.  

There was a knock at the door. “Lance? Everything okay in there?”

Lance wondered frenziedly if this _heart-battering_ was what his aunt experienced during her cardiac arrest. At the prolonged silence, Keith knocked again, sounding worried:

“Are you decent? Um…do you need anything?” At least Keith had the courtesy to sound half as uncomfortable as Lance felt.

It was hard to know which was worse: The fear or this profound humiliation.

 “Lance? _Please_ tell me you’re okay in there.”

He couldn’t speak or move. Keith spoke again, sounding genuinely apprehensive. “I just wanted to let you know the tea and food is ready. Did you want me to take it to your room?”

A pregnant pause—a taxi throbbing, waiting.

“Um, you’re really scaring me right now. Is something wrong? _Please_ tell me you didn’t drown in the bathtub.”

“If I did, I’d hardly be able to tell you that,” Lance called back at last. Maybe he ought to just stay in here all night; it would be a decent tradeoff for any remaining shreds of dignity. But the prospect of imagining a colony of eyes surrounding him here won out. “Uh, Keith, I think I’m…stuck.”

“….what?” The other boy sounded stunned, as if he’d never heard of such a thing. “What do you mean stuck? I… _oh_.”   There was a thud, as if Keith had head-doored. “I’m such a thoughtless creep. I ought’ve—I don’t know, have given you a broomstick you could’ve used as a crutch, or a chair…. Lance, I’m so sorry. Did…did you need some help? I can help you towel off and dress.”

Oh, God. Oh dear God. This was the stuff of never-ending nightmares: First being chased through the woods by a maniac, and then being buck-naked in front of a young man whom had to heave him out of a bathtub as if he were an old person whom Had Fallen and Couldn’t Get Up.

“Um…sure, sure.” His nonchalance was clearly forced.

“You can come in.”

Keith obeyed, eyes to the tiled floor as he shuffled to the tub, throwing a towel over his shoulder as he bent over Lance, whom reached for him in turn. He couldn’t but notice that Keith’s eyes, like the imaginary ones, on the ceiling lingered over his naked form longer than strictly necessary. There was a starvation in those eyes that had nothing to do with the craven sexual desire that had been in Dave’s face ever since Lance was just a freshman. 

Thank heavens Lance’s body remained unresponsive, else his next request would’ve been for Keith to toss him down the steps.

With surprising strength Keith hoisted him on the mat and inattentively started toweling Lance off as if he were all of five. Lance gaped at him as Keith drew the towel away from his hair, which was now ruffled in all directions.

”Um. Thanks…?”

Thankfully Keith took his cue to look away as Lance lowered himself to the floor. He awkwardly shuffled into the pants with a pained huff, and fumbled to roll back the overlong ends. But they simply flopped back over his feet. When he pulled on the shirt, the sleeves slid back from his elbows and drooped over his arms. He now resembled a paraplegic, or a child playing dress up. “Can you help me up now?”

“I don’t know. Can you say please?”

“I don’t know. Can you shut up?” Lance asked with no real ire as Keith helped him up anyway, snorting quietly.  

 “I hope that feels better. Let’s get you to your room. I have to insist you eat.”

“I don’t know if I can hold anything down,” Lance said honestly as Keith scooped him up once again.

 “You feel sick?” A hand at his sweating forehead.

Only a considerable time later when Lance was in bed, binge-watching the ceiling and thinking wordless thoughts he recollected later on only in colors, did he acknowledge that a small, very unwilling part of him had wondered why Keith wasn’t warm. It had been all the warning of the roar of an incoming train, but ultimately just as immobilizing. As useless.

“…no.”

The honest answer was that he didn’t feel the slightest bit hungry even after his prolonged run. And Lance realized with another guilty pang—was there anyone more ungrateful than he was?—that he wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted to eat anything Keith cooked.

But if Keith wanted to hurt him, he had every opportunity and he’d been nothing but a gentleman.

“Then I’m still going to have you insist you eat. It’s chicken and rice soup, by the way, so you should be able to keep it down.” 

“Thanks. You’re amazing. But you seriously don’t have to carry me,” Lance pointed out as Keith carried him down the hall again.  

“I think I do.” Keith threw him a charming smile. “Looks like you escaped a rabid dog and wound up in a serpent’s coils, Lance.”

“….snakes are fine with me,” Lance said uneasily, slowly back-stepping from the potential landmine _that_ entailed. “My friend Pidge has a snake named Green that likes me a lot. She’s cool with just hanging out on my shoulders. Hunk is _terrified_ of her,” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Although Green’s real chill and gentle.”

“Would you really want to hold a snake that had a chilly disposition, let alone allow it to be draped around you?”

“I take it you’re not familiar with slang. One of the reasons I’m busting you out of here the moment we get an opportunity. Just so you know, when Pidge calls you a ‘ho,’ she means it endearingly.”

“What’s so endearing about being called a laugh?”

“Okay bro. I’m buying you a slang dictionary. And, uh.” He looked down at the bright red stripes on his borrowed pajamas. “If you’re a snake, _please_ tell me you’re not one of the poisonous ones.”

“That remains to be seen.”  

“That is _not_ why I need to hear tonight. Shut your ho mouth.”

“Relax.” Keith looked down at him fondly. “Right now, I’m one of the gentle ones.” He hummed thoughtfully. “Although the world just might need to take me by a case-by-case basis.”

“Yo. Be nice.”

“All of these yo’s and all these hoes. What are you, a pirate?”

“Look, just remember: Yo before bros, except after hoes. That’s all you need to knows.”

They entered a dimly-illuminated room, and the smell of dried flowers rushed into Lance’s senses. It was a bedroom, and while Lance supposed he no longer ought to be surprised by _anything_ at this point, he wondered that it resembled something from a movie set. Maybe something from _Pride & Prejudice_: A fancy minimalist scene with softly-polished wood floors, a large wardrobe, billowing white sheets for curtains, a four-poster, a tiny bedside table, and (to Lance’s delight) a large shelf filled with small, dark volumes.     

“Bookshelf!” He exclaimed happily, pointing.

“Very _good,_ Lance.”

“You think you’re funny,” Lance snapped, wriggling in Keith’s hold until he dropped to his good foot again.  

“On the contrary. I know I’m hilarious.”

Lance made a face at him before hopping over to inspect the collection. “If you want to really understand someone, you have to look at their books. Some writer guy who’s dead now probably said that.”

Lance was a voracious reader save for when someone was actively forcing him to read something. At that point he bitterly resented the assigned material and out-maneuvering having to read it became a point of honor. (Although when he finally did read _Brave New World_ of his own volition, he couldn’t deny the thrill he experienced contemplating the sexual culture within the book. Scratch out the weird squeamishness regarding parenthood and you turned a dystopian novel into a utopian novel pretty quickly in Lance’s eyes.)

He hoped to see something ubiquitous and reassuring, like _Harry Potter_. Hell, he wouldn’t even have minded seeing some tacky, embarrassing, fantasy-tween romance novel that was a spin-off of another tacky, embarrassing fantasy-tween romance series. But Lance’s smile faded somewhat as pulled a book free and inspected it, slowly taking in its compatriots before him.

The books themselves were much smaller than most Lance encountered these days, and they felt heavier, probably because many of them were made of leather. Many had onionskin-thin paper covers, and uneven, yellow pages.

Their authors had their names stamped on, and he ran a finger over them curiously: Kipling. Barret-Browning. Voltaire. Baudelaire. Shakespeare. Keats. Wordsworth. Wilde. This looked more like a collection of antique books you weren’t actually supposed to hold or touch belonging to some fussy collector than anything a Hot Topic kid would own.

“Wow. I see you’re a classic lit aficionado,” Lance murmured as his fingertip skimmed the book spines, pausing on a tiny volume marked _The Waste Land_. Lance was both amused and perturbed to see that this book appeared to be the most recently-released item among its fellows. “So, are you one of those ironic hipsters whom think everything written today is too mainstream and shallow, so only olde lit for you?”

Keith frowned, opened his mouth, and then visibly-flinched, eyes squeezing tightly shut as his hand flew to his temple.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Lance sang gleefully. "But I bet you like Green Day and My Chemical Romance, right?" 

Keith neither spoke nor moved, and Lance's smugness soon gave way to confusion. He hopped back over. "Everything alright? You look...kind of pale. Are you having a migraine or something?" 

There was someone coming. Keith could _feel_ their approaching footsteps dimly pressing into the edges of his subconscious. Whom might that be, in this weather?

And then Keith smiled demurely. The salacious thrill was immediate and intoxicating.

"Just a headache." He gestured welcomingly to a steaming tray on the bedside table, and hoped Lance wouldn't be able to taste the addition to his tea. 

First things first. Lance had to be safely tucked out of the way, and made to rest.

After that, it would be time for dancing. 

* * *

 

-O-

_“My mother told me long ago…”_

By now his lips were so cracked it hurt to speak. He could scarcely hear himself over the wind, which by now had reduced his ears to two stinging stars of pain. He wet his lips again. A mistake, but a reminder that some part of him was still warm. 

_“When I was a little tad…”_

He rubbed his neck ruefully. His throat had become a liquid line of fire much earlier, when at last his crooning escalated into screaming. Embarrassing, that; _what_ McClain must’ve thought. Dave’s sheepish smile widened as a pearl of blood trickled down his chin. 

The snow was falling thicker and faster now, catching in his eyelashes. Reminded him of tossed rice and the sentiment made him chuckle slightly. He patiently raised his lantern a bit more and watched the twinkling snow drafts building up around him. 

“ _That when the wind went moaning so_ …”

He spoke mainly to amuse himself, puffs of air swimming over his face as he continued forward. His mind disinterestedly wandered back to yesterday, when Mrs. McClain had tearfully begged Dave’s brother at the station in broken English to _‘Help my boy, he—he is—this is—destroying my family—he is sick with fear, his grades are falling—‘_

The fuck did the bitch expect? Her boy had tested positive for ADD, or whatever shit-fuckery Alphabet Soup Clause that meant the little retard deserved special treatment. A hint of wistfulness crept into Dave’s eyes and he tutted.

_“That someone had been bad…”_

 Oh, and Dave had been _so_ willing to give McClain some special consideration. He had the decency to offer generous compensation to Lance for what Dave was already entitled to. Still, he’d offered to raise Lance’s grades that day in the gymnasium, when Dave smilingly approached the boy rooted to the spot in the center.

_McCain’s pupils were shrunk to pinpricks and Dave positively squirmed with joy when he paused in front of him. It wasn’t as if Lance’s grades weren’t contingent on what he’d copied off Holt anyway. And if he had any hope of entering the academy upon graduating, he’d need a generous letter of recommendation, which he wasn’t likely to receive from any of his teachers._

_Dave would never have allowed it in any case_.

_Yes, that was fair, and as he demurely waited for McCain’s lips to unglue themselves, Dave dreamily considered a few other treats he could award to a good boy whom knelt at his principal’s feet and properly groveled, loved him, crawled underneath Dave’s desk, and—_

Dave’s smile hadn’t quite faded, but his eyes dilated as he continued his trek through the woods.

But Lance had shoved Dave away that day in the gymnasium and torn out of there. Rejected his love. As if Dave were some living disease. Oh, that had hurt, and that was why Lance’s gifts from his admirer steadily evolved into broken doll parts and dead animals.

A laugh bubbled free; a warm ecstatic sound. Lance’s whore mother could cry at the police station as much as she liked; Lance’s father could shout at Altea’s chief of police as much as he wanted. Chief Peter Wallace was Dave’s brother, and understood these matters better than anyone. Dear Peter. Dave lovingly fingered the knife handle still hot in his hand.

Dave slowly came to a stop as his light finally fell on heavy indentations, muffled by fresh snow but there nonetheless. Dave chuckled merrily.

Someone forced their way through the banks very recently.

_Yes._

He’d clutch Lance to himself so gently, despite everything. After all, nothing would be so awful as to not be killed by someone whom loved you. He’d pin the boy down and murder him in one way and then another by cutting his heart out. Feel the hot rush of life in his hands, those lovely eyes have the light shot out of them. And then Dave would—         

**_“Fuck!”_ **

A low-hanging bough struck him in the face, its twigs curling in his hair like fingers. He pulled himself free, but lost his footing and fell in a snow bank. Growling, Dave hoisted himself back up, hesitantly pressing a hand to his stinging eye. No blood. He swore quietly again, sticking bitterly cold fingers in his mouth to warm them.

He took his lantern back in hand, squinting around the dense thicket of forest he'd wandered through for what now felt like hours. He had to give this much to McClain; the once high-inducing game of hide-and-seek was steadily becoming annoying.

Dave felt a tremor of dark, hot fear. _McClain couldn’t possibly get away._ Not with his dear Blue smoldering in a ditch, not with the limp Lance was sporting as he rushed into the forest.

Dave waded through the snow after the prints, snorting at a particularly large indentation. And another. McClain had clearly lost his footing a few times. The humor evaporated quickly though; Dave was thoroughly drenched, colder than he'd ever been in his life. Everything fucking hurt, and he'd made Lance pay in kind. He'd cut open small animals before, watched with bright, breathless anticipation as the doomed creature howled or squealed as he slowly sliced into them. He always saved the inner organs for last, timing how long he could keep an animal alive before sawing into its intestines or brains. Once he'd hung a dog with its own intestines, and how appealing would it be to do that to McClain?

For this prolonged wait, Dave just couldn’t give a naughty boy a quick death. He would cut him open so slowly, almost tenderly so. He would feed him the broken glass he kept in his trunk, make his eyes bubble out of his own head with the chemicals he'd swiped from the school lab. But Lance had escaped amongst the thorns like a rabbit, and now things were steadily devolving deeper to pot. Gritting his teeth, Dave yanked at his own hair and roared.

"FUCK!"

He couldn't go back; not now. Not now, not when instinct told him that Lance was running blind, not least due to the fact he no longer had his cell phone, which Dave fingered in his pocket along with his switchblade.

To Dave’s dismay the marks eventually led to a tiny, thorny tunnel that seemed to borough into the earth itself. _Christ_. But he obediently bowed and crawled after, albeit with no small amount of difficulty.

After what felt like a long time of being thoroughly raked in every direction, Dave heaved himself free, scooping up his lantern and weapon again. Yes; these footprints had sneaker zigzags.

The tracks eventually led up a hill. Dave knelt to touch pink snow, pressed it against his cheek. Blood. And judging by the long skid marks, Lance was hurt and falling more than ever.

Dave lumbered through the path, up another hill (he himself slid several times) and he at last came to a halt, all but gasping for breath as he raised his lantern again.

The barely-visible silhouette of a house. In this fucking forest. What the actual fuck. The cold had to be hemorrhaging his brain. But Lance’s tracks led straight on towards it, and Dave went deathly still, biting the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted rust.

His hand slowly curled into a trembling fist. Against his better judgment, he slid down the hill, the flurry improving to a fury and the wind buffeting Dave back with all its might. Let it try.

Well. This place was uglier than an open wound, but Lance in all likelihood crawled in here for shelter. If there were another occupant, someone whom wanted to help Lance, they were just as culpable as he and deserved to be strung up in the trees too.

The first time he tried opening the icy gate the fucking thing slammed shut, and he all but ripped it open in the gale. He strode up the walkway, now so freezing Dave for the first time worried about hypothermia. But if he died out here, he'd take Lance with him. But maybe he could try taking a note from  _Star Wars_  and rest in Lance's warm entrails for the night. It was a good thought.

He set down the lantern and tried the rusting doorknob, which was locked. Hissing angrily, he pounded his fists against the battered door before ramming into it with his shoulders in a frenzy.

And at last the thing came crashing down, the aroma of must and rotting wood rushing into his senses. He tentatively stepped inside; the carpet was damp and filthy, spotted with mold. He could taste the smell of mildew. The flashlight beam slowly rested on a destroyed chandelier on the floor, shattered glass glinting in all directions.

What had once been a fine-looking home seemed to have been turned inside out; there wasn't much furniture about, and much of it seemed to be in pieces. He wrinkled his nose as the ray fell on rodent bones and droppings, and everywhere there were fallen planks and bricks from a dilapidated roof. He threw wary glances at the ceiling, hoping the wind wouldn't knock debris atop him.

The windows were cracked and he could see his breath in here. He wandered into what might've been a sitting room, sofas overturned, chimney a yawning pit. He passed by a mirror with such-grimy glass he almost didn't recognize what it was at first. His reflection was so murky and distorted he could scarcely make out his own silhouette at all.

The lantern light floated over the water-stained wall paper, which fluttered from faded walls like ripped skin.

"Lance," he said, his honeyed voice echoing. "I know you're hiding in here, you little shit," He turned back to the main hallway, observing the frosty steps.

This place was disgusting, but it would have to do for shelter. The snow would have to stop by morning, and he'd make his way back.

“Come out, my love, come out and play.”

Silence. He carefully headed up the stairs, which groaned under his weight. "Playing hard to get? Daddy’s so _hurt,_ sugar pop. I’m going to butcher you if you don't come out now. I thought coming out was what you _did_.

"Lancey?" He chimed in a singsong voice. "Come out, come out, wherever you—“

A second later his foot plunged through the wood and Dave howled in shock, falling on his knees. With an animal bellow he wrenched his foot free of a splintery hole, and gingerly crept up to the second floor. 

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

His light rested on an ajar door. He very slowly entered the room, ears pricked. A bathroom. Colorless, cracked walls. His light rested on an enormous bathtub; its faucet drips echoed.

The tub could make for an excellent place to hide. Dave approached, knife still held at the ready. But when he stood over the tub he saw that it was full, only with something that looked like ink instead of water.

Both squeamish and curious, he put his knife in his pocket and dipped a hand into the tub. When he drew it out it came back red.

Not a second later a gore-spattered hand shot out, seized Dave's collar and attempted to drag him in.

**“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”**

There was a warm rush of piss down his leg as Dave pulled back against the wrenching hand, brow glistening in the effort of escaping its iron grip. He blindly socked and scraped the emerging arm with his free hand, and at last managed to stab blindly into something solid.

The hand slowly withdrew under the surface once more, and Dave frantically plunged his knife down after it. But the blade scratched against the tub bottom as he fumbled for flesh, icy blood sopping down his front, and hands gleaming red.

But however much he cut at the water, the blade came contact with nothing at all. There was nothing there, now.

He grabbed his fallen lantern and strode backwards, shaking like mad. **_"JESUS H FUCK!”_**

He tore out the bathroom and slammed the door shut, wheezing. Mind neatly erasing itself clean, he slammed his hands against the door, grimy hand slipping, leaving marks. "The  _fuck_  is this sick shit?"

His escalating pitch nearly became a sob, but instead became an enraged bellow: "THE FUCK ARE YOU UP TO, LANCE? I'M GONNA KILL YOU! I'M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU!"

He swiped his hand on his wet pants, but none of it came out at all. As Dave began desperately scrubbing his hand against his front, his pant legs—almost _licking_ his palm in his haste—

The spattered blood wouldn't come off. It wouldn't come fucking  _off_.

He jolted around, spotting another door at the end of the hall. Eyes bulging he made for it, stopping cold as he heard a throat clearing behind him.

"Good evening."

Dave cried out, whipping around and sliding on the rotting floor in the bloody-puddle accumulating beneath him.

His frantically-darting lantern fell at last in front of a pale, dark-haired young man whom surveyed him icily, his eyes cold. For a moment the whites of his eyes seemed to turn black, pupils reduced to over-bright red balls. But a second later Dave blinked and they were normal once more.

"The  _fuck_ are you?!" He demanded weakly, dripping free hand extending his knife threateningly. To his mortification his hand was shaking. If he hadn't been prepared to kill a stranger before, he certainly was now.

The stranger's expression remained stony.

"This is my house." He said quietly, hand resting lightly on the balcony over the stairs. "And you're not welcome here."

"Yeah, I see you live in the fucking Ritz, you squatter," Dave sneered, piggish eyes narrowing to slits. "If you're hiding that little fuckboy McClain here, you better point me in the right direction if you don't want me to plunge this into your ear."

"You might want to consider being quieter," said the stranger dryly. "Yes, Lance is in my protection tonight, but he's sleeping now. You shouldn't disturb him. It's really bad manners.”

Dave gawked at him for a long, terrible moment.

"What the—the fuck, did you two finger each other's pussies here?" he jeered, his mocking voice belied by the bellicose jealousy chiseling over his face. "I assume you’re Lance’s boyfriend?"

"One thing at a time,” the strange boy muttered, dipping his head. “As of right now, I'm his guardian."

"Fuck, you got some kind of daddy kink?" He took one menacing steep forward, and another. His voice reached a dangerously-sweet register. "I can understand, poppet, I can _understand.”_

Dave slowly reached out, gleefully imagining twisting those locks between his fingers as he slit the boy’s throat. “Tell me where he is. You can’t hide him from me forever. Remember that, and I won't kill you."

"No I won't, yes I can, and no, you won't," the young man said flatly, crossing his arms. "You're over seventy years too late for that one."

" **GIVE HIM TO ME**!"

And Keith smiled a smile that could cut. It grew wider and wider until his mouth began to tear, ripping apart his lips and mouth until he was quite literally grinning ear-to-ear in an enormous gash, teeth and the insides of his cheeks visible. His blackening eyes cracked open like eggs, and what looked like tar leeched down his cheeks.

He slowly rose in the air, toes just kissing the ground, contorting madly as his spine crunched in half with a sound that cracked like a gunshot. His encompassing arms widened, hands and nails rapidly lengthening.

The entity’s skin bubbled, and suddenly torrents of spiders exploded from every crevice, out his empty eye sockets, out the nose which had fallen on the floor, out of the huge smiling mouth. They all surged free with a series of near-deafening _clicks,_ and on the floor and upon each other’s backs a wave of frantically-marching spiders rushed towards him.

Throughout all this, Dave had been paralyzed, lantern dropped, unable to make a sound, hot piss dripping down his leg. He fell against the banister and tumbled over it, slamming onto the stairs.

His vision blurred into stars, his shoulder and knees crushed with pain—one of them had given a sickening  _crunch_  beneath him. Dazed, breath effectively knocked out of him, he began sliding down the stairs before the steps began moving like an upwards-escalator, every rising step smacking him across the face, in such quick procession he had no chance to recover.

The specter leaned over the balcony above, blue light in the holes in his face like two fireflies. And the spiders flooded through the bars and across the banister in droves, pouring on Dave and swarming over every inch of him.

He screamed and screamed, which only led to live spiders spilling into his mouth. They crawled their way down, down, down, tiny waving hands scratching his throat and trachea. His eyes bulged and he thrashed to and fro in an attempt to scatter them, only inviting the arachnids to propel themselves more quickly inside him.

With the biggest effort he'd made in his life he hauled himself to his feet, threw a leg over the balcony and slid down the banister.

When he came to a stop his legs almost failed him. Swaying, catching himself, he vomited twitching spiders and ran for the door, only to have his ankle yanked sharply back, sending him crashing down.

Dazed, agony searing its way through every fiber of his body, he managed to turn his head in time to see a rotting, white-eyed corpse with its jaw hanging off its hinges shred its way through the splintering wood of the floorboards. It clutched a graying-pink lasso—intestines from its torn open stomach—that was tangled around Dave's leg.

The creature roared as it wrenched him backwards with Herculean strength. Shrieking, he clawed at the snare and hopelessly scrabbled at the floor as he was pulled within reach of the monster, only to look up and find an abomination already floating over him, bones in its mouth as mismatched as if they'd been drawn from different people or animals, jammed into bleeding gums. The shadows flaring epileptically about its skull looked like slashing black crayon marks.

And then the thing descended on him.

-O-

Dave's eyes flew open. He was surrounded in near-complete blackness. The only points of light were a few white pinpricks in the sky from a considerable distance above him, as if he were in a tunnel. Grunting, heart pounding, he attempted to sit up, only to flop back against what smelled like wet leaves. There was no part of him that didn't hurt, save for his legs, which were numb.

Everything hurt; his head was so tender he could scarcely lift it. He stared at the sky and tried desperately to figure out where he was, or if he'd slipped from one nightmare into another.

 

Scrunching up his face, completely flummoxed, he feebly propped himself up on his elbows. Slowly, a head came into view from above. 

Nearly shitting himself, Dave attempted to rise only to find that his legs would not move no matter how hard he pushed them. As a matter of fact, he'd lost feeling in everything beneath his navel. He bellowed like a wounded animal:

_"YOU! THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO ME?"_

Keith tsked. Now his voice rang out on all sides, as if they stood in an amphitheater: "You act like I just snapped your neck. I aimed a bit lower. Although I'm surprised you had a spine at all, considering what a monstrous, pathetic coward you are.”

He let out a long-suffering sigh. "If Lance didn't need me to check in on him soon, I'd be happy to put some sort of parasite’s eggs in your stomach." He hummed. "It's incredibly appealing, the idea of them hatching inside of you and feasting on your insides before bursting through your stomach walls. But leaving you in the well has some poetic justice, so I'm happy to let it slide this once."

"What the hell?" Dave sniveled hoarsely, throat constricting. He felt something jabbing into his upper back, and just barely managed to pry a long bone from underneath him. " _Aaah, aaa, aaaa, aaaaaaaaa!"_

"In case you're wondering whose bones those are, they're mine," called Keith. "I was left here to die at the hand of someone I trusted." His lip trembled for the briefest of seconds. "So here is your tomb. It's more than you will ever deserve."

"I'm not a fucking cripple, not a fucking cripple, not a fucking cripple," Dave snarled, clawing at the walls. "I'm not wheels, I'm a fucking—I'm a fucking…I used to be a football player, for Christ's sake—I'm not—a crippie—"

"Actually, you are," said Keith firmly, dropping something on Dave's head. It bounced off, and Dave could vaguely see another bone, this one blackish red. "I saw to that. You probably can't feel it now, but I ripped part of your spine out."

Silence. Dave’s head turned against his will, watching as blood slowly oozed beside him. From underneath him. He screamed and started pounding his fists against the well sides, as if that would help.

"Let me out, let me out or I'll _kill_  you—"

"Oh, shut up. Incidentally, I was left underground in the summer for days; it was a long and remarkably unpleasant end, I assure you. You're lucky it's winter. You'll freeze to death tonight and drift off into a pleasant sleep. You should be grateful Lance needs me. The way he'll never need  _you_ , by the by."

"NO! NOOOOO, NOOOOO,  ** _NOOOOOOOOOO!_**  LET ME OUT!  _LET ME OUT!_  PLEASE!  ** _YOU FUCKING PSYCHO_** —I'll kill you, I'll kill you—"

"Actually, those are my words. Goodbye, Dave."

And with that Keith closed the lid over the well, listening as Dave's spiked screaming, the intermittent mix of cries, curses and prayers stifled. He stooped and cleaned his bloody hands off in the snow. Had he sounded that way, when Lotor threw him down there? More likely than not.

Keith wandered away from the well, tilting his head to the sky the way one might to the sunshine after weeks of rain. The snow was near-blinding and the wind sobbed as his coat flapped about him, making him look like a strange black bird attempting to take off.

Somewhere very far away, a Keith Kogane sank to grief over the monstrosity he'd committed; a mortal and sadistic act of torture he had not believed himself capable of. Sealing away Dave the way he had was akin to tossing someone in an oven.

But that Keith Kogane was, after all, a considerable distance away.

He closed his eyes, holding out his arms. He felt peace, radiant with justice. A Lotor Zarkon would die tonight, and could never harm a Keith Kogane or a Lance McClain ever again.

If he were to be condemned to eternal purgatory here on Earth, exiled as some Jacob Marley to wander alone in misery, why not give the punishment some merit?

He thoughtfully considered the stars. He liked to think the chill somehow made them brighter, though of course it was the intensified wintry darkness making them seem so. Keith bowed his head, letting his nose sink into Lance’s blue scarf, which he’d borrowed though of course he didn't need it.

Here he had died, and here he remained, forgotten. What sin had been his, save for the fact that he'd been born? For Keith had wept and fasted, wept and prayed, wrung his hands at mass and implored innumerable saints to heal him of his attraction to men. Nothing came of it. For committing the crime of being human he’d ended with both with a bang to the well bottom  _and_  a whimper as the lid shut out the sky.

And even when he’d died and emerged from his tomb his parents fled from his specter, as had everyone else he’d ever encountered. Keith had wandered this forest until he reached an invisible barrier he could not pass. And so here he remained.

His eye twitched. For what he’d discovered tonight had been just a little over a century. He grabbed a stray branch, and began drawing lines in the snow.

Inexplicable as a newborn’s ability to use their arms and legs, Keith _did_ understand that he did have it in him to _make_ things if he wanted. People even, if he liked. But while they did everything he directed, these things ultimately were marionettes whom couldn’t move without Keith pulling their strings, or have a voice unless he blew his own into them. Certainly these shadow-puppet silhouettes were incapable of being real company, or of loving him on their own. Their existence was worse than being alone.

He smiled, might’ve cried if he could. 

Somehow Keith's ravenous mind remained perpetually-intact like the rest of him all these years, though madness would've been a most-welcome reprieve.

He could conserve the memory of the inside of his home if he wanted, but eventually lost all interest in doing so. He'd gone to sleep with the building and all but merged himself with it, praying to succumb to the steady decay of the old house's bones and crumble with it somehow. A prayer to nothingness:  _If there could be no heaven nor hell, let me cease to be altogether._

And then he jerked awake after what he knew was a _considerable_ long time, felt Lance hammering against him, crying out for mercy…

And Keith had been  _needed_. In his lifetime he had craved to be needed above all else, despite the fact that he needed more than anyone he’d ever known. To find that Lance likely would've died without him (though he was incredibly resourceful) was gratifying. More so than it should be.

Keith felt a phantom stab in his chest, though he lacked a beating heart. Confined here in this blizzard, injured and with no way of contacting the outside world, Lance had still cried for Keith.

Keith’s eyes flickered and he hugged himself. To be given this brief reprieve was nothing short of cruel—like throwing away a plate of food in front of a starving dog, or slapping a sleeping child.

His silhouette gradually began to fade, the only visible evidence that he or Dave had been there at all was the latter's blood in the snow. No meaning behind it. Just blood in the snow.

-O-

Keith re-appeared outside his— _Lance's,_ he inwardly thrilled—door, the house restored as it was in its prime. He'd sealed away Lance's room to protect the little nest while he pursued Dave.

He couldn't resist smirking. What satisfaction it had been, to enact some of the more-dramatic revenge fantasies festering inside him for decades! He would’ve dearly loved to play longer, but if Lance’s wound opened again…

He was conflicted. It seemed like an invasion of the smaller boy's privacy to appear directly in his room, and there would be… _awkward_  questions if Lance woke and saw Keith suddenly materialize beside him.

How much he would like to lie down with Lance like the cursed prince from the fairy tale  _East of the Sun, West of the Moon_. Or take him as Cupid took Psyche, himself unseen.

Keith pressed his brow against the wall. Every pore of him was opening for the press of warm skin; his own touch-starved after…after over eighty years. How his mind had not torn itself to pieces with despair was a mystery he'd soon as not discover.

He slowly slid to the floor, prostrate as a supplicant. He'd been alone for so long, and his torment had never become any less unbearable. But tonight a cold gale threw a bird from the darkness to his feet. Albeit one that sassed, but…

 _“I don’t know what ‘solipsistic’ means, but if I can somehow help you out with your situation, I_ have _to. And it’s not just because you saved me, but because there’s nothing worse than someone just expecting to be treated like nothing for the rest of their lives! And if your parents are holding a knife over your head, then I want to protect you.”_

“Oh, Lance. You little fool….”

_“You’re a good person, Keith. Really, you are! I’m not dumb enough to believe that alone magically undoes all the conditioning you’ve endured all your life, but if it helps, I’ll tell you’re one of the good ones a lot. As many times as you need. And then a few more after that, because you’re just that cool.”_

And to the ruined tower came the Prince of Aquitaine.

Keith smiled, sweet and just a little bit sad. Such naiveté. It was a wonder Lance had survived this long. He was endearingly little out, large within.

If at last Keith had gone insane, it was the sweetest kind of madness to tumble into. He pressed his forehead to his knees and gripped his hair.

He ached with longing; Lance was everything he’d ever wanted. And he wasn't a criminal or a pervert like the homosexuals portrayed in newspaper articles about secret bar raids. He was the Gabriel meant to end Keith's suffering. His arrival couldn't be an accident.

Keith couldn't cry, but oh, how he wanted to. Then again, perhaps it was a blessing that he could not; he might never stop.

His mind raced. The storm confined Lance here for now, but it would dissipate eventually. Lance would certainly want to leave, and the idea was so catastrophic that Keith longed to die properly more than he ever had in his existence.

He raked futilely at his skin, painless and indestructible as ever. He was doomed a second time; he couldn't _keep_ Lance here. Imprisoning him would be just as ghastly a sin as what had been done to Keith. Worse. He savagely bit down on his knuckle to suppress the howl rising inside him.

And yet.

_He suddenly saw Lance's retreating figure on the moor, heard his fading footstep and Keith’s voice was as useless as it was the day Lotor forced him down the well and threw that first handful of dirt on his face…._

The unwinding tendrils of his hot, dark hopelessness thrashing like snakes in his mind steadily evolved into luminous threads, iridescent like bubbles. They reached for their prey like so many loving hands, cradling Lance in gentleness and something as unbreakable as steel, dragging him back.

“…no…”

Keith was seized by the worst kind of bitterness, the acute bitterness of those whom believe the universe owes them something.

Did God not owe some comfort for all he’d endured? Perhaps Lance was just that, some cosmic retribution. Keith’s unmitigated purgatory had been struck a crescendo.

Whatever life Lance had before, Keith consoled himself, it was all a farce compared to the real happiness Lance could have. He’d be eternally safe and happy. Keith would see to it that Lance was preserved here, forever young like himself. The world in all likelihood had not changed in its attitude to homosexuals, if _Dave_ were any kind of indication. No, the only humane thing to do was to keep Lance here for his own safety. Because people like Lance attracted the Daves of the world, because people intuitively wanted to destroy beautiful things.

Of course, that would mean telling Lance the truth and he'd be frightened—whom  _wouldn't_  be, Lance might even hate him—but Keith would  _not_  allow that to last forever. The young man might need a little careful cultivating, like a precious stone being shaped and refined for a priceless ring, but Keith would have Lance’s heart in his hands when he understood that this was for the best for them both.

Lance was his by right. And Keith would shower him with all the affection and gifts he could ever want and then some. Whom else would give him the attention he’d been so desperately seeking for so long?

He raised his fist, lowered it again. No. He would not broach the subject tonight, not when Lance needed rest and time to recover from his injuries and ordeal.

Suddenly the crack under Lance's door shone yellow and Keith stiffened. Surely Lance couldn't have heard him. He concentrated, felt his little bird's feet tentatively touch the floor, and that  _wouldn't do—the idiot—_

He knocked, now holding a platter with a water glass and pitcher. "Lance?" he said, and he had to say it again, partially because he'd spoken too softly the first time, and partially because it was a pleasure to say his name. "Lance?"

Something between a muffled squawk and a yelp.

"….come in.”

Keith obeyed, finding the youth sitting up and clutching a pillow.

"I'm sorry to be so rude. I was just using the bathroom and thought I'd check in on you. Need some water?"

Lance gratefully accepted the glass and took a few cautious sips. Keith looked him over. Twice, to be sure. And then again.

"I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No. I was already up." Lance’s hands twisted in the comforter. "Man, you weren't kidding about that chamomile tea being a knockout. I was dozing and then I thought I heard…someone _wailing_. God, I swear my eardrums shattered, I—“

Keith bent and enfolded him in his arms. Lance clutched back for dear life.

"Shhh," he soothed, resisting the urge to strain Lance tighter against him. "I promise you there’s no danger. I just checked all the locks again. Nothing's coming in."

 _Or out_.

They sat there for a long time, each lost in their own thoughts. Lance was the one whom slowly pulled back first, cheeks lightly dusted pink.

"I think I'd like to read for awhile, if you don't mind. That always helps me after a bad dream."

"Of course. I'll get some books for us both."

"You don't have to stay awake on my account," Lance objected, though the true protest in his voice was small. The latter smiled.

"No, I was having a hard time sleeping too. We can just sleep in tomorrow; there's all the time in the world."

Lance grunted noncommittally and Keith retrieved some titles from a nearby shelf. When he turned he found Lance perched against the window. "You shouldn't be up."

Lance said nothing. Keith dumped the books on the bed before gently but firmly tugging on the bony wrist. Lance quietly obliged, and as he sagged on the bed he cast another troubled look at the window.

"I  _swear_  I heard something.”

Keith sat beside him, gripping his shoulder as Lance buried his face in a bandaged hand. "I heard someone crying. Like…nothing I’ve ever heard before—it was like they were being  _sawed in half_."

Keith sighed, humming inanely as he pulled Lance back into his arms, hold as constricting as it was comforting. For a foolish moment the young man imagined being lovingly smothered in velvet.

"’Twas the wind, _"_  Keith quoted, pressing his cheek against soft brown hair. "’Twas the wind, rapping at your chamber door.’

_"'Only this, and nothing more.'"_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. That happened. Thank you for staying with me here. 
> 
> I do have a longer plot continuation in mind, but I also don't want to unnecessarily exhaust a storyline in a way that would make it bad. Any feedback on the subject helps a budding writer out!

**Author's Note:**

> Whew! Thanks for reading this segment; again, feedback is really helpful and very much appreciated!


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